Warlock of Omaha
by Hemaccabe
Summary: Adventures of a Warlock who lives in Omaha in the Dresden Files universe. No overlap with characters from the series. Less violence and more sex than actual books. Rated M for both explicit sex, violence and some language.
1. Chapter 1

(Warlock of Omaha Author's Welcome and Warning

I have just updated the story with editing and polishing as of 2/3/2019. I was happy to find a large and healthy community of fellow fan authors of Dresden Files fanfics. I'm new to the world of fanfics and was surprised that so many stories focused on Jim Butcher's main characters. I just assumed that in a fanfic, one would create new characters that would exist in the same world and that's what I have done.

My story has violence, but if you can handle the actual Dresden Files, then mine shouldn't be too bad. My story has sex. Once again, should not be too graphic for a Dresden File fan. Some may ask questions why my main character does what he does sex-wise, some questions he answers himself. As an author, my goal is to be honest. If one handed the average male some sort of lucky charm that could instantly convert nearly any woman into his personal groupie, how many would never use it? How many AT LEAST once? How many a few times? How many would use it to extreme? I think the average Axe aftershave commercial answers that question.

There will also be boring parts while my main character describes his gear, particularly his guns. You were warned in advance. That brings me to my first disagreement with Mr. Butcher. Mr. Butcher seems like one who knows a bit about firearms. His characters select firearms that make sense for their own personal abilities and situations. However, he consistently understates their potential effectiveness. Yes, there are many scenes where firearms prove their metal, but there are also many scenes where they seem far less effective than they should. One should have to be very high on the magical food chain before one could ignore a trained human shooter with a shotgun. Of course, he has over a dozen NY Times bestsellers, what do I know?

The other issue is magic. Mr. Butcher's conceit is that there could be this whole rich ecosystem of magical critters hiding in the shadows. My main character explains my counterargument:

"Magic is very rare in the real world. If it was common, why would every medium be fake? Why wouldn't there be real magic stage shows? If there was, say, a pack of fifty werewolves hanging out around Denver, that would mean there would be thousands in the US alone, not to mention the rest of the world. Don't you think one would have shown up on Jerry Springer by now? There is magic, but real magic is rare as hen's teeth. Which is why the mundane world is not prepared for it and someone with even a small gift can really play with it."

Mr. Butcher seems to believe that normal people work hard to ignore the fantastic. The wide variety of shows seeking ghosts and other paranormal phenomena seems to speak the opposite. The Dresden Files are very well read. I would imagine practically every reader would love to find even the slightest evidence of magic. Hence my argument that magic would have to be painfully rare.

Perfectly conceived or not, writing a fan fiction shows that I am obviously a big fan and find Mr. Butcher's writings very entertaining which is the ultimate test of a fiction book's worth and authorship.

This story represents a bridge between my world of a single unpublished novel and Mr. Butcher's and is meant to be a tribute of my esteem. I offer it here as a gift and my deepest hope is that you enjoy it.)

Warlock of Omaha

Chapter 1: Breakfast Time

I live a good life in Omaha. Omaha isn't the place to go for cosmopolitan entertainment. The restaurants aren't very good for many reasons, not least the way so many Omahans like a chain and the pre-cooked slop that gets shoveled off the back of industrial food delivery trucks to serve in them. The shows aren't great. Even when a big Broadway production comes through, you have to realize that the star talent stayed in New York. The top Broadway talent stayed with them. The B team that accepted positions in the road show, they're still pretty good and will give their best for shows in Miami, Chicago, Dallas, San Francisco and especially LA, never know who might be in the audience there waiting to discover the next big talent. But Omaha? We're lucky if the travel team's understudies bother to telephone in a performance by the time they get here.

Unlike, say, Manhattan, where it will cost you a lot just to own a car. Driving into the show will cost a fortune in tolls. The drive will be a stressful broken field run on narrow streets dodging double parked cars and giant potholes when the traffic moves at all. When one gets close, one will need to pay for expensive parking and then walk a substantial distance through packed streets that smell like a locker room before one gets to the theater. It's easy to spend in excess of $1000 on such an evening and that's with cheap tickets, full price premier tickets, the sky's the limit.

For the B team understudies we get in Omaha, a calm sub 15-minute drive will get you to the theater and likely abundant free parking in comfortable large lots and spaces that have no trouble accepting my full-size pickup. Generally, the best tickets will only set you back $50 apiece. An inexpensive and stress-free night to enjoy the best the scrubs can provide. Which is, essentially, what Omaha offers. Omaha is quiet, well managed and well kept. The people are courteous, the schools are good, and the pot holes get filled. Omaha is probably the largest city in the US one can say that of. If one is looking for excitement and cosmopolitan adventure, Omaha is not your place. If you're looking for orderly and quiet, it's the best you can get.

I woke up in my nice big bed and went to take a shower in the large attached bathroom. It had been a long three-day Fall weekend and a big food festival had been in town. I had given myself the weekend off to spend quality time with my girls in the strict understanding with myself that I would get back to work on the bolts come Tuesday morning. I came down to breakfast full of industry and sat down at my chair in the dining room. Miranda immediately came in and put down my breakfast, four scrambled eggs, white toast with butter and jelly on, hash browns and beef bacon. I generally get one more thing on the side, today it was a waffle, but sometimes it's a pancake, French toast or a fruit pie. Miranda is an excellent cook, on her way to being an excellent chef, so it's really well made. I wash it down with a tall glass of was oranges within the last hour OJ and a glass of ice cold skim milk on the side.

For those wondering, Miranda is a very attractive young woman attending the culinary program at a local college. I'm very lucky she has chosen to live with me. I have plenty of room and the deal I offer, free room and board for chores is pretty good. I enjoyed watching her walk back into the kitchen after putting down my tray as she swayed away wearing a tight little chef-like outfit.

I could have chased her into the kitchen, but I always have a full schedule and today I had some very, very important bolts I needed to work on.

I suppose if you want to get to know me, knowing where I come from is a good place to start. I grew up in a small Midwestern college town where my Dad was a professor. It wasn't a state school, or even a secondary school. Just a small university in a small town far from even a small provincial city.

My Dad graduated with a Master's degree in Electrical Engineering before a degree in Computer Engineering even existed. At that point, as he explained it, "There were two places for a computer expert to get a job, IBM or a university. I didn't fit in at IBM and this is the university that gave me the best offer."

As interest in computers mushroomed, my Dad was always in high demand. He always wanted to get away and complete his doctorate, but the demand for his skills as an instructor were too high. He was always teaching more classes than he should have been and was always overworked. In turn, because I listened at the top of the stairs when my parents thought I was asleep and they were having serious conversations in the kitchen, I knew that he had made tenure in half the time and was paid more than double any other professor, though the pay was not common knowledge and my Dad was always careful not to flaunt it.

Despite being busy, he was still a good Dad. I never had doubts about how he felt about me, and he always wedged in time to spend with me to make sure I knew I was a priority. It was very important to my Dad that I get a good education, and despite living in a small town in a rural Midwestern state, the school board was dominated by college faculty who valued education highly, meaning our local schools were first rate. In addition, my toys were blocks, then Legos, then an erector set and finally electronic kits and opportunities few other kids had in those days to use computing equipment generally kept to college students, government labs and very well-heeled big companies. I know it gave my Dad great pride that I would go on to earn two Master's degrees and a Doctorate.

My Mom and Dad married before I was born so I was not privy to their courtship. I know my Dad was crazy about my Mom and did everything he knew to show he cared. He worked hard to provide her with a nice home and things. He was never shy in showing his affections. He gave her a son. As far as I could tell, my Mom was very fond of him. She was from some foreign country, I never found out where and she didn't want to talk about it, but despite speaking very clear and correct English, she always had a foreign lilt in her voice which I know my Dad liked. My Mom knew how to wear a dress, look her best and I know it gave my Dad great pride that when he was at an event, he had such an attractive woman on his arm. My Mom showed my Dad affection in the way of the day, she kept a tidy home, cooked meals he loved and looked after his son very well.

The magic came from my Mom. She came from a long line of "Wise Women." It was apparently very strange that I had inherited her powers. The normal way the power passed in her family was from mother to a single daughter, though not necessarily the first daughter. However, I was an only child. I learned, by listening at the top of the stairs again, that something had gone wrong with my delivery. I didn't get the specifics, but it meant that she could definitely never have another child. Further, it had done something to her that could not be fixed, only managed with frequent visits to doctors, medicines, pain and eventually three more hospitalizations. The last, while I was working on my second Master's would be the end. Did I get the power because I was an only child or even if my Mom had nine kids and five daughters would I have got it? Who knows? It's not like you can run a double-blind study with a thousand subjects to find out.

However, my Mom made the best of those years. She was a good wife to my Dad and made us a family. While a woman of her era was expected to stay home, she started a business and had a small shop just off main street. She used her talent and the recipes of her line to produce simple lotions, remedies, scents and soaps. In an era when "Ivory" was considered fancy, her products developed a dedicated following. Her remedies wouldn't cure cancer but they could help someone who was sick keep their appetite and energy or help a woman in chemo keep her hair so she wouldn't have to face one more heartbreak and humiliation at the worst possible time. She even sold a secret love potion, but only to truly desperate women. My Mom told me the potion didn't make someone fall in love, it made the one who drank it a bit more confidant. There was one time she gave the love potion to Mrs. Simpson whose husband was a drunk, a philanderer and a wife beater.

Mrs. Simpson came to the store one night as my Mom was closing and I was already working the mop. She begged, "Just give me the potion, maybe, if he loved me more, he wouldn't beat me. I can't take another beating tonight."

Mrs. Simpson was already pretty beat up when she came in that night. My Mom gave her the potion and refused payment. Mrs. Simpson took it and threw that bastard out that night. Police Sgt. O'Malley started spending nights on Mrs. Simpson's front door and had to convince Mr. Simpson, several times, that a restraining order really did mean business. Eventually, Mr. Simpson left town. A few months later, Mrs. Simpson became Mrs. O'Malley and nine months after that, Hope O'Malley was born. Hope would eventually become my Mom's assistant at her store and Mom left the store to her in her will. It felt a bit weird, but Hope lived for that store and I was making bank in Omaha, so it seemed like the nice thing to do.

So, I had this power. It's hard to describe what it's like to have magic, like trying to describe sight to the blind or sound to the deaf. Apparently, it slowed my development. Around age one, as my brain tried to learn how to deal with all the signals, I wasn't keeping up with other kids to the point my Dad wanted to get me extra help. Luckily my Mom understood what was happening and kept him in check. I caught up by age two and didn't realize everyone else couldn't see and feel "the sparkles." My Mom taught me what she knew, and I studied and practiced and experimented.

So, does that mean I was a total magical badass? No. Which begs the question, "How does magic work?"

There's no way to really explain "How magic works." It's way more complicated than I would ever be able to put into writing, but I'll try and give a dumbed down, simplified version.

Firstly, you have to have a well of power within to draw upon. How does one measure such a well? Well, unlike role playing games, it's a lot more complicated than spell points or levels or whatever and the well represents the simplest part of the system. By dint of great effort, I've developed an ability to see, not perfectly, what someone's well is like. The typical person has a well about the size of a small cardboard match, a flickering small cardboard match. I've been around some serious wizards, theirs are more like bonfires. My Mom and me? Maybe a small indoor woodstove?

But a well of power is just the beginning. The next thing you need is a will of steel. The will is what brings the magic out of the well, which it doesn't want to do, so that you can do something with it. I'd love to say I was a total badass with an indomitable will, but my will is very domitable, maybe it's soft pine or hard cheese.

So now your will has the magic out in the open ready to do something, you need to be able to concentrate. While your will is still pulling. Concentration is what makes the magic do what you want, i.e. a spell. My concentration is okay. Chess is also a discipline which requires good concentration. I was the high-school chess club president and champ, which despite being such a small school, meant something since many other kids were the children of serious academics who took chess very seriously. I went to the state competition three years for our school. My best finish was second place. Not the best concentration ever, but at the high end of normal human.

Lastly, a lot of things about magic aren't intuitive. To be a great wizard you need to get some good magic tutelage. My Mom taught me what she knew, but I suspect that was a whole lot less than what a serious wizard might have learned.

What can you do with a minor magical talent? Not a lot directly. Despite watching the Empire Strikes Back roughly 800 times, I was not lifting boulders. I did manage to get that trick so I could get a roughly light saber sized item to jump into my hand. You can also do what my Mom did. Some natural ingredients are just naturally sympathetic to magic. By casting a spell in a certain way, on a carefully selected group of ingredients, assembled in a very particular way, one can infuse more and more power over time into a thing, like a potion, and get to a point where one can accomplish something. This sort of slow infusion can also be spread across people, hence the ancient "coven" which might be composed of very minor talents who could pool their power. Not as fast or direct as a single real wizard, but my Mom could still do some amazing things.

Now, when I think back on it, I wish I had been a better student. If I had focused more on magic and less on tech maybe there were more things I could have learned. You'd think that a geek who grew up reading fantasy and watching sci-fi, who lived for SCA and role-playing games, you'd better believe that an isolated small Midwestern college had some lively role-playing communities, you'd think I would be all over the idea that I had my very own pipe-line into real magic. You'd be wrong and I was stupid. By the time I graduated college with my BS, computers and technology were exploding and seemed like the "real" future. Magic was all about doing boring menial chores in my Mom's shop. I had a choice of being part of a glowing high-tech future or being a lotion maker in a small, dingy shop in nowhereville. Guess what I chose. In my defense, I'll say that I thought I could come back later, but life decided to teach me a lesson about never knowing how long you get with the people you love most.

I do have a few advantages that I understand are rare among human magic users. As I understand it, most serious wizards have a tough time around technology. My Mom didn't like anything higher tech than her mechanical cash register. She didn't have any electric kitchen appliances beyond her fridge. The range was gas. She could listen to the radio or phonograph, but if she walked into the room with the TV, one must remember this was the age of rabbit ears, the signal would collapse.

I didn't notice any problems myself, and I watched a lot of TV, until I turned ten. That fateful birthday, my Dad brought home a computer terminal from work that probably cost as much as our house and had less capability than a decent calculator would a decade later. But for the day, it was super high tech and unheard of to have in someone's private home. My Dad was excited to show it to me and I was excited to see it.

My Dad spent hours getting that terminal set up all just right, everything plugged in and a finicky 200 baud modem finally working. Only then was I finally invited in to behold. The second I walked through the door into our parlor, where Dad had set the machine up, it started having problems. The look my Dad gave me was the same one my Mom got when she wandered through the living room in the middle of a TV show my Dad liked. I knew I had only seconds before I was told to leave the room and I was desperate just to touch it. I lunged for the keyboard as my Dad yelled, "Don't touch it!…"

I had literally pressed just one key when there was a pop and smoke came out the back. I don't know how pressing just one key could have broken the thing, but I was in deep mud. Somehow, I was held responsible. As much as I sulked and declared, "It's not my fault!" I had touched the thing when I knew I shouldn't have and I knew it was the magic in me that killed it, so really, deep down, I knew it was my fault.

For years I had teased my Mom about her technology troubles. Now I knew I was in trouble myself. I knew I could accept it or fight. I chose to fight.

The next day, I walked myself down to the hardware and mercantile with my collected savings and bought a quartz action Timex watch with blue simu-leather band for the princely sum of ten dollars. One must remember, this was in early 1970s dollars, equivalent to over $100 in post 2015 dollars. The mark that takes a licking and keeps on ticking lasted less than eight hours. I went back the next day and was informed by the proprietor, Mr. Kolchak, there would be no refund or replacement. This was in the days before 30 day no questions asked Wal-Mart returns and the assumption was, as I heard Mr. Kolchak say to one of the men lounging about as I left, "It was something that fool kid did that done broke that watch so quickly."

It took me 19 days of doing every chore I could get and every odd job anyone on the block needed done to assemble another $10. One must remember that people in those days thought twenty-five cents was princely remuneration for mowing a large lawn with a manual mower. That watch lasted seventeen hours. Eighteen days later and watch number three lasted fourteen hours. I have to admit, at that point I was discouraged. I think my Dad, who would never admit openly that there could be such a thing as an anti-technology magic field, but who clearly believed in it, sat down with me, put his arm around my shoulder as I wept openly over the dead watch, and said, "Nothing really valuable ever comes easy."

It helped. My determination was banked and re-readied. I would love to say the next watch ended up working fine. I can't. It lasted 26 hours. But that was enough. Things were moving in the right direction and I was getting a sense of how the power moved in me and affected the watch. It would be watch number nine that lasted. That watch sits, still running, on the mantle in my study next to a picture of my Mom and Dad.

Having the ability to interact with electric appliances, cars, TV's, Computers and Cell phones has been very valuable.

As I finished my breakfast Diane walked in. Diane also lives with me and does the gardening. I have large grounds with lots of grass and plants that need to be looked after. We also have extensive gardens which provide a large amount of the fruit and vegetables for the table, not to mention a few hens which provide the eggs for our breakfasts. Diane is in the Grounds Management program at a local college. She's also quite attractive, long and lean with skin lightly tanned in that authentic way it does when the tan comes from real work in the sun and not from a bottle. Diane was also wearing crazy short jean shorts and a tied-up t-shirt that left a lot of slightly shiny skin exposed. Diane flopped down into a chair and I started thinking that a delay before I got to the bolts might not be so bad.

My Dad attended all my graduations and was particularly proud when I got my doctorate. He was never the same after Mom died. The college put him into "research" out of teaching as they eased him into early retirement. The fall after my final graduation he passed as well.

He lived long enough to see I got a good job with a firm in Omaha. Omaha's main industry is agriculture and as food prices went up in the nineties, Omaha did well. Omaha is also the home of an amazingly large piece of the financial industry. Berkshire Hathaway lives in Omaha as do many other Fortune 500 companies. They were ready to pay big for my skills and I was ready to take it. I got a job earning a high five figure paycheck, and very likely big raises each year after. With some money my parents left, and some I had saved, I put a down payment on a fancy loft apartment in the best part of town. I was paying down the mortgage fast with lots of money left over for buying fancy toys, eating out and partying hard. I'm not now, and I wasn't then, particularly good looking, but I wasn't fat, I worked out and I had nice things, so I did have some success with the fairer sex.

My hobby was making me the real money though. I hadn't forgotten what I'd learned about magic. I traveled at least two weekends a month. There were casinos opening all over the US back then. At first, I would just win at roulette. But that attracted too much attention. Eventually, I figured out that it was best to win at slots. I'd walk into the casino wearing a wife beater t-shirt and board shorts. Have only keys and wallet in pockets. Spend a few hours losing a few hundred dollars, then bang, hit some five-digit jackpot. I could then, generally, parlay the win into a nice free suite and some comps at the hotel bar. Cheating at roulette and slots was very simple with some basic magic. I was averaging over fifty grand extra. A month. So yeah, I had some money.

I didn't really need the money, it was just piling up in bank accounts. I told myself that I was saving to open my own business or retire early, but really, I did it because it was fun. Winning attracts a lot of female attention. Taking those winnings to the bar and buying Crystal attracts more. I planned to just keep playing as long as I could.

Magic is very rare in the real world. If it was common, why would every medium be fake? Why wouldn't there be real magic stage shows? If there was, say, a pack of fifty werewolves hanging out around Denver, that would mean there would be thousands in just the US, not to mention the rest of the world. Don't you think one would have shown up on Jerry Springer by now? There is magic, but real magic is rare as hen's teeth. Which is why the mundane world is not prepared for it and someone with even a small gift can really play with it.

That's when I got the wakeup call.

I was in Las Vegas. I loved Las Vegas. It's a quick hop from Omaha. There are lots of Casinos so I could win at slots once each night at a different place and maybe a fourth if I woke up early enough on Sunday. After gambling, Las Vegas was the best place to play. Sexy shows, cool bars, big suites and a let loose and live life attitude.

That Saturday night in Vegas I was playing slots in a big strip casino when I noticed two people, a man and a woman. The man was taller than my six flat and buffer, though not overwhelmingly so. He moved like he'd had some training somewhere, but that was a just a guess. The woman was petit with red hair. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. She was wearing a baggy top and sweats that hid her figure, though she had a pretty face and hair. To a casual glance, they were any two of the tens of thousands of tourists Vegas attracts everyday playing slots.

Except for two things. They looked worried. He kept scanning like he was expecting trouble and she was keeping her head down. Secondly, I could tell they had talent. Remember, I said magic was really rare. I'd been in a lot of casinos and seen a lot of people and these were the first two non-muggles I'd ever seen. To keep using my dumbed down analogy, her talent was somewhere around torch size and his was, maybe, big candle? We both won on our machines, I had won twenty-six grand and they had won over fifty. We cashed out together and were walking out. I was walking maybe 30 yards behind them and wondering if I should say something. We both left by a lightly used rear exit into the garage. It was, maybe, one am.

Something set me off, and, in a rare moment of agreement between animal brain and thinking brain, I ended up under a parked car. The two I had been following were suddenly surrounded. I've reviewed what happened next a million times, particularly in nightmares and when I've drunk too much, it's burned into my brain permanently.

Maybe I could have done something to help them, but remember, I didn't even have a cell phone and I'm not a badass. Another thing I think a badass needs is that they enjoy violence. It's like a roller coaster ride to them. I don't like roller coasters and horror movies. I've had a handful of serious violent encounters in my life. Each one is a trauma that never heals.

The two were surrounded by stereotypical men in black. I'd love to be able to say I counted, that would have been a smart, tactical thing to do. I was too scared. They were wearing shiny black suits, white shirts and black ties. They had short haircuts, but not buzz cuts, and big sixties era looking sunglasses, even though we were in a dark garage late at night. They were all different races and heights. I'd love to say I saw their shoes, but I was too terrified to look. I've noticed, as I replay the memory in my mind that there was something wrong with their proportions, they were maybe a little too thin side to side and too thick front to back, but that could be the distortion of terrified memory. The MIBs handled the two like it was completely effortless, like they were just moving mannequins, though I knew they were fighting for their lives, particularly the guy. In seconds the two were wrapped up in strait jackets that included hoods that covered their heads and some sort of leg wraps that immobilized their legs. Only then did I notice the White Man.

The White Man had been lounging on a car on the other side of the two and the MIBs. He slid down gracefully, walking over to the two with a cigarette in his hand. He moved with an air of privilege long held and taken for granted, like a young James Spader character. His suit was all white as was his shirt, tie, shoes, everything. His skin was inhumanly pale white as was his hair. He was pretty in a Euro male model way, only more so. I swear he had a faint, white, nimbus all around. However, his long hair was curly and rolled and his suit looked a little rumpled, but in a studied Italian designer sort of way, as if to announce, "Yes the suit is worth more than you make in a year, but I'm so cool and rich and entitled, I don't really need to look after it." The group of them had an intense, menacing aura that I know left me terrified so badly I couldn't move.

The White Man walked up to the two and briefly touched the man on the head and the woman on her breast. I could tell then that the two were still fighting with all they had but were each held completely motionless by two MIBs. The White Man said with a tone of amusement but crazy menace, "A deals a deal. Did you think you could run?"

Then the White Man raised his arm and snapped his fingers twice and two large people mover vans pulled up from somewhere, each driven by an MIB. They had the rear doors open and threw one of the two into the rear cargo section of each van. Then they loaded into the vans fast, like it had been practiced. The White Man was sitting in the front passenger seat of the first van, and, I swear as they drove away, he looked at me and winked.

In a good story, I'd talk about how I had a long feud with the White Man and, after many backs and forth, and close scrapes on both sides, I had finally hunted him down and put paid on his bill. What I actually did was flee to my rental car, drive back to my hotel, barricade myself in my room and not come out until it was time to leave on Sunday. I won't say what condition my pants were in when I got to the hotel room. I stayed in big groups of people until I was on the airplane and I have never been back to Las Vegas. Mostly, I thank god I've never seen the White Man or the MIBs again.

Up to that moment I'd been floating along like a bug on the thin surface tension of water. My surface tension was the idea that the world was a safe place. The incident in Las Vegas showed me there were largemouth bass just below the surface ready to demonstrate just how unsafe the world was. Below those bass was a bottomless ocean with larger predators each level down.

There's a second basic reality that was also made apparent. There are fates worse than death. In the mundane world, there are some fates worse than death. In the magical world, there are many, many fates worse than death. If some buggity boo out of fairyland shows up and decides to drag you back to it's cave for a few millennia of whatever torments it's superhuman mind can think up, you'll be begging to die, and NO one is going to dig you out of that hole. I'm sure by the time those two hit the floor in those vans they were praying for death.

It took a month of just living in my apartment, using up some of my vast stockpile of sick time, for me to recover and figure out what to do next. The first thing that was obvious was no more gambling trips. That was Done. Secondly, I was going to learn about self-defense, and at first, that meant just about anything and everything. I learned a lot of basic lessons. The first being, I'd probably never be enough of a bad ass that if one or more really serious anythings came after me I'd be able to stop them. It's like a house in the suburbs, that lock and deadbolt on your front door are not going to keep out a determined criminal. But, if you have enough, they'll probably decide it's not worth it and move on to the next house. The trick is the same for any defense, make taking you more trouble than it's worth. The second was how I was going to make money going forward, because now I wanted a lot of money because I knew I was going to need it.

While I was reading about everything from how starfish defend themselves to how grandmas do their assertive walk to martial arts to guns and alarm systems. I started also thinking about something else.

The Men in Black and the White Man could have been a lot of things, but they clearly exuded an intense sense of menace. It was likely that their appearance was at least partly an illusion, which I had not made any effort to break because I was much too busy being terrified. In that was a subtle, but useful, detail I began to work on immediately.

The detail, or as I would call it myself, a "seeming," wasn't an illusion in the normal sense. I wasn't making myself look like Frankenstein or something outlandish. Seemings are subtle, but I found could be quite powerful. To imagine a seeming, imagine what you might do on an evening when you're going out to see if you can convince a member of the opposite gender (or the same gender, if that's your thing) to come home and play. You shower, put on scents and makeup, shave the parts that will help, put on nice clothes and jewelry, etc. You are trying to seem as appealing as possible. Each item conveys a message about how desirable you are as a mate and makes you seem like a good catch. With a relatively small amount of magic, one can strongly turbo boost such seemings. It was, I realized, how my Mom had done such a good job wearing those dresses over the years. She probably hadn't taught me that trick, with her old-world morality, fearing how I might use it. Or perhaps she was waiting for a later when she thought I would be mature enough to handle it that never came. As, let's face it, I have used seemings on the girls I've convinced to come live with me. With a well-made seeming, an average looking guy like me can walk into a bar and convince some remarkable women that they want to come home and cook and clean as we have already seen.

I could also use accumulated contacts and go visit 20 or so of the local big fish companies and convince them that my consulting services were absolutely critical to their computer security and worth $1 mil to start plus $1 mil a year and, incidentally, access to their computer systems. More valuable than the pay has been the management. These are some of the best money management firms on Earth. Berkshire Hathaway has consistently been THE best for half a century. Most financial service companies have two levels of service, one for normal peons like I had been and one for their "preferred clients."

Preferred clients get better opportunities and guarantees that normal people never get. It means I make more now from the money already sitting there than I do from the new pay, which generally just gets thrown on the pile.

I used the pile of money to figure out a more permanent and safer place to live. Omaha, with it's magical barrenness, still seemed like a good spot, particularly since it was now near my "clients." I did some searching and found an aging neighborhood near 72nd and Dodge. From that intersection, one would never know that huge, opulent, but slowly declining mansions were nearby, just north of the University of Nebraska. I could have picked a spot somewhere out of town and had more land and more extreme defenses. I would also have been easier to cut off from communications and farther for the police to come in case of emergency. The neighborhood I chose was in the middle of the city.

Basic home defense strategy is the same if you have a small shack or are a multi-millionaire magic user. Try and hole up and survive until help arrives. Make the attack as expensive and unpleasant as possible to slow down and deter a potential invader. I figured they would have to be some very powerful players if they were willing to continue once SWAT showed up, in which case I'd be done anyway.

At the center of the brick street neighborhood in question was a hill. The top of the hill was split between four homes. The one to the northwest, with the best position, was unoccupied and apparently had stalled some time back on a renovation. It was easy to buy. The house to the northeast, with the second-best spot, was occupied and didn't want to go, but a high bid moved them along. The home just south of the hill's peak was inhabited and they really didn't want to go, even for a lot more than what their home was worth. I was about to start a campaign of dirty tricks when they suddenly caved and took my offer. The home to the south east was inhabited but in need of a lot of deferred maintenance which meant the family living there was under financial strain. A fair offer if the home was in good condition moved them right out meaning I had no direct neighbors, I was surrounded by street. I demolished all four homes. I saved some lights, chandeliers and some great mahogany paneling, but otherwise re-built from scratch.

I wanted a taller hill, so I brought in a lot of concrete which was pumped underground wherever my ground penetrating radar found vacuums or low density. Then I brought in gravel and earth which was rammed. The east side of the property had been unsupported steep grade desperately in need of a retaining wall, so I had a thick retaining wall built around the property stabilizing everything and giving me maximum useful space. I then surrounded the property with a 2-foot-thick steel reinforced cement wall that was 10 feet high above the retaining wall and six feet down. The wall then had what looked like an ornamental stone exterior finish but was actually made of a drill (and explosive and bullet) resistant ceramic six inches thick on both sides. Imbedded in the cera-stone were chunks of glass that looked very pretty and presented very sharp edges, particularly at the top of the wall just where a hand might come down from someone trying to scale the thing. The glass was also embedded in the wall below grade and one yard out on both sides from the wall the dirt was filled with irregular chunks of glass in a way that would be very frustrating for any tunneler. The top of the wall had a row of very classy 4-foot-tall square black metal fencing made out of solid stainless steel coming to very ornamental, and functional, razor sharp hooks at the top. Woven among the square metal bars was a beautiful metal rose vine sculpture with lots of very sharp thorns and razor-sharp petals functioning as some very resilient and very punishing barbed wire.

I'm obsessive about detail and I had the money to indulge.

The home was a Monolithic Dome, done with outer walls that were over 10 inches of steel reinforced concrete. The dome also had a layer of polyurethane for insulation and which was sandwiched with the same ceramic ornamental stone that was used on the wall. The walls could take rocket shelling. The windows were all very thick, 250mph wind capable (and definitely bullet-proof) and had 3-inch-thick steel exterior shutters and interior bullet proof roller shutters ready to snap shut at a moment's notice.

Despite it's fortress-like construction, I had decorated my home with a very hobbit hole meets Ralph Lauren feel and the first level is a foot below grade at the very top of the hill. There was a large living room, dining room and kitchen. The kitchen was all granite and stainless high-performance pro-grade appliances. There were a lot of bathrooms and bedrooms, including a very large master for me as well as a bar/game room, an office and a really high-end home theater/den. For the girls, I also had a library. On the property, in separate buildings I had a number of shops, labs and a garage.

As time has gone on I have further fortified the home with magic and technology both passive and active.

Have I been able to harness my limited magic for personal defense? Yes.

The first step in self-defense is to accept that you need to be aware of self-defense. In survey after survey, the most typical victim response to violent attack has been passive non-resistance. The most typical answer from survivors to why they were so passive? They were too shocked to believe it was actually happening to them! They were floating along in life chanting the ever-so-comforting mantra of "It can't happen to me."

Until it does.

As bad as my wake-up call experience in Las Vegas has been for me, I'm alive and intact and my blinders are off. I now walk around with the much wiser, though less comforting mantra of, "It can happen at any moment, be prepared."

What have I done?

Any mundane guide to self-defense will continue with some very basic advice, the next step is to be aware. Get your head out of your problems and your smart phones and pay attention to what's going on around you. That awareness might buy you a second's warning, which can literally be the difference between life and death. I've done a lot with tech and magic to get myself more warning time. I'd love to say I have spidey sense or some magic jedi awareness. I don't. But I'm working on it. I have developed the ability to be aware of and resist illusions and seemings. Haven't had a lot of chance to test them. Yet.

Next, there's illusion. I've heard there are some wizards so powerful they can fire a column of flame over a yard in diameter hundreds of yards away and with such force they blow through walls. At one point as a teenager, I desperately wanted to be able to throw some magical attack. The best I could manage, after months of trying, was to throw a bolt of flame a few inches long a few yards without much force, it might scorch a wall or maybe set something flammable on fire, but even my accuracy wasn't very good.

I've heard serious wizards can raise shields that will block bullets. I can do a small shield that probably won't stop anything too high caliber.

However, I can do an illusion of a column of fire pretty good and make it look like I'm standing two feet to my right, most of the time, that's just as good. Most of the time.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Warlock of Omaha Chapter 2: Unicorn Hunting**

As luck would have it, the mundane world has an answer for those who can't throw magic fireballs, it's called the shotgun.

While I took many steps to improve my ability to defend myself, the most obvious was firearms. Over the years, what is available in the world of firearms and what is recommended for personal defense have changed. When I first got started, the consensus of the self-defense experts for the best personal safety firearm was a shotgun. I ended up with a Remington 870 Marine.

I took the shotgun apart and put it back together many times until I understood every bit of it. I practiced for at least two hours a day, while also going down to a local range at least three times a week. Each time I went, I spent a few hundred dollar's worth of shells shooting endless streams of trap and skeet. After a few months, I wasn't going to the Olympics, but I had achieved a high level of basic competency.

Not being one to ever leave well enough alone, I played with the 870. I would have liked a box fed semi-automatic shotgun better than the pump fed Remington but didn't feel there were any good options on the market. The 870 was the preferred option for countless law enforcement agencies and is very popular to this day. That meant there is a bottomless pool of accessory options. Shotgun shells are also known for coming in substantial variety. I ended up with a variety of doo dads including an upgraded stock and rifled barrel.

There's an old saying, "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."

Whoever started that saying obviously didn't know about shotguns. The point of a shotgun is that it fires a shell full of pellets and will hit an area that grows larger the further from the gun it hits. This doesn't mean shotguns require no skill. You still have to be on target to have an effect, but it is a much larger area of effect than you'll get from a rifle or pistol. The standard pellet options for personal defense shotgun shells are size 4, double aught and slug, with double aught being the most popular. Double aught has a small number of large pellets covering a small area. Size 4 has more smaller pellets covering a wider area. The slug breaks the rules being a single large "slug" of lead, often hollow pointed. A slug firing shotgun will give up a lot of range and accuracy to a rifle, but that single huge slug firing with such huge force is absolutely devastating.

Of course, no shell option was good enough for me. So, I created a flechette round made of stainless steel that fired from my, unusual for a shotgun, rifled barrel. My flechette loaded shotgun rounds looked like a slug with lots of pointy ends. The whole thing would be spun by the gun's rifled barrel then come apart after leaving the muzzle and corkscrew downrange. The flechette package would be backed by some size 4 stainless steel shot, an oversized load of fast burning powder and a fast primer. I coated all the projectiles in tracer material which meant they burned as they flew. I put magic into them to help them fly straight and true and seek out the weak spots on targets. That meant anything I fired at would have big pointy bits of burning stainless hitting them with extreme force and supernatural accuracy. I did extensive testing on ballistic gel, different kinds of armor and sides of pork. The effects were devastating out past one hundred yards.

Why stainless steel? Two reasons mostly. Firstly, steel is illegal in most pistol ammunition because it's too good. Steel is really hard compared to the lead most bullets are made of and therefore much more likely to penetrate most kinds of body armor. Police, who like to feel body armor makes them safe are understandably concerned. The better penetration is the kind of advantage I want when facing things that are much nastier and more resilient than mere mortal men.

Which leads to the second reason. As I've said before, there is very little magic in the world. I've been in hundreds of shops claiming they sold "real" magic paraphernalia and I've never found a single thing with any magical resonance. One is much more likely to find such objects in old antique shops or swap meets. Even still, I've hiked over many acres of such places and frequently come up empty. However, of the magic that does exist, most comes from what I call fairyland.

I don't know a whole huge heck of a lot about fairyland, but I know it surrounds the physical world we live in and probably has many times the area of Earth and many times the variety of inhabitants. I'm sure some are nice and would make great friends, but most are incredibly dangerous and prey on us mere mortal humans. I can make a magical gate to the fairyland, but it leaves me exhausted which would be a wonderful condition to put myself into incredible danger, so I don't much do it. One basic detail that seems to apply to most of fairyland is that they're very vulnerable to iron, and therefore steel.

That shotgun was what I had when I got my first test.

My home has a variety of defenses, both passive and active. They include a variety of cameras and motion detectors, both obvious and hidden and in depth. If camera 1 goes out, chances are camera 1a, 1b and 1c are covering the same area and now getting a lot of attention.

While getting all the systems integrated, speaking to each other and usable with a fast-user-friendly interface was not as simple or quick as I would like, it came together eventually. Not long after that, a camera we'll call, "camera 22," started dying. It would die and I'd start scanning 22a, b and c and see nothing. The first time I checked the camera, it had died from a typical short, so I sent it back to the vendor for replacement. Electronics were fairly sensitive back then and I had a lot of them out. Other bits and pieces had teething problems during set up, so I didn't think much of it. I was still within warranty and as a very large customer of the vendor in question, got excellent service. Three days later, a replacement was up and running. It lasted two days and died.

Camera 22 just didn't do well. It never lasted more than three days and frequently only one. I checked everything I could think of to see if it was a system fault or problem with the location, but everything was fine. I took to keeping extra cameras in inventory so I could get the next one up faster. I switched models and manufacturers over time. I think the constant failures actually drove model changes from manufacturers as they wondered why so many of a given model were dying. Nothing helped.

I know it's a simple thing to use a bit of magic to scramble and break electronics. The results tend to look like common failures, but it didn't take me ten cameras dying to realize it was magic and that someone was probing my defenses. If I was a badass wizard with allies, I probably could have gone out and hunted them down. That sounds cool but it would mean letting them pick the time and place of the fight with me at my weakest, not a good strategy. I could have gotten lazy, stopped reacting and just rolled over in my sleep, which seemed very tempting after it had happened over two hundred times. It was very frustrating and very tempting. Instead, each time I jumped into my readied gear as I clicked on the laptop to watch what was happening.

A little over a year later, something did finally happen. What I've always later called, "Forest Man" sailed over my wall with a fairy elegant leap. I was there with my shotgun. Forest Man took one in the head and two in the torso before he hit the ground. When "he" hit the ground, he was done. No movement. Small fires went out after a few seconds. I spent the rest of the night out with my gear on waiting for the next move which never came. Forest Man was basically humanoid, but made of nothing but branches, vines and other plant matter. I'm pretty sure he was a magical construct and all the metal in the shotgun shells disrupted him. We buried the "corpse" under the garden, and I have to say, the grass on the spot where Forest Man fell and the garden, we buried him in have grown really well ever since. Camera 22 has also never failed again. I guess whatever was probing me gave up that night. Once again, it would be a much better story to say we had a long feud which, after many close scrapes resulted in me putting paid to him, but that's not what happened. Whatever was hunting me clearly decided that I was more trouble than I was worth, and I never wanted to meet anything in a dark alley that thought hunting me was a good idea.

My weapons have evolved since then. The shotgun was great, but pump actions are slow to shoot and the eight-round magazine limit and slow reload time were serious liabilities. I know there are those that think eight rounds is a lot. Imagine if Forest Man had a few friends. I could have gone through eight rounds pretty quick, if they gave me long enough to pump, before they put paid to me.

I went shopping.

In the world of firearms there are many different types and classes of weapon. One has to remember, guns are tools, just like hammers and screwdrivers. You wouldn't use a twenty-pound sledge to tap up a photo or a small screwdriver for demolition. Picking the right gun for the right situation is very important. One of the reasons gun rights people like me don't like the not very "common sense" restrictions of gun control advocates is that they tend to restrict types and varieties of firearms at random without really thinking about the legitimate needs of the people they are inconveniencing to death.

The funny thing is, that amongst those very practical tools are ones that don't make much sense. They're too powerful and do too much damage at the expense of being quick, fast and other important practical considerations. It's like they were made for hunting some fantastic creatures we all know don't exist. In other words, perfect for me. In the firearms community, they're known as unicorn hunters.

The unicorn hunters were born in the era of Dirty Harry. Back in the seventies, a .44 Magnum revolver made sense, if you had the arm and hand strength to use it. Most police were equipped with woefully underpowered 38 special six shot revolvers. Semi-automatic pistols of the day were not very reliable and the most common, especially here in the states, was the M-1911, which only gave you seven shots of .45 ACP. Giving up one .45 ACP for six .44 Magnums wouldn't be a bad deal. But the world moves on and, in the eighties, Gaston Glock gave us a very reliable and simple semi-automatic pistol with seventeen shots of 9mm. Further, the weak 9mm rounds of the seventies and early eighties gave way to better, much more lethal 9mm options. So, do you want six shots that will buck, be hard to handle, slow to shoot and hard to be accurate with or seventeen that will allow fast, accurate follow on shots and be much faster to reload while being just as deadly? Exactly.

So why do they still sell .44 Magnum revolvers and even bigger? Why do people buy expensive sports cars?

That said, for me, they make a lot of sense. There are a lot of nasty superhuman buggity boos out there that take a lot more killing than the average person.

My current load out includes a Glock 20 long slide, which fires the pointlessly powerful 10mm round which I can handle pretty well with my magically enhanced physique. It's a Gen 3 that's been souped up with some after-market parts and one of my signature barrels. I've also spent many hours imbuing it with magic. It would be wonderful if there was some simple way to put in magic and make it better. There isn't. I have been able to make it stronger, more reliable, faster to point, lower recoil and more likely to aim true. That represents a lot of hours of carving in patterns and then painting it with Cerakote and doing it again.

I also practice. Anyone who competes in firearms sports spends a lot of time practice drawing and doing drills in addition to actually shooting their weapons.

I also manufacture my own bullets. They're not too different from current high-performance bullets readily available on the civilian market, lead cores, with a bonded alloy skin and a boat tail rear end. What I add that makes them different and special is a cup in the base which does amazing things adding power, think hemi engine versus conventional. More importantly, I fill the bullet's hollow point with a super hard steel pointed tip. Steel tips aren't really illegal for rifle and shotgun ammo but are ever so very illegal in pistol ammo. But I want that armor piercing thing again. However, unlike traditional armor piercing which might over penetrate and not do enough damage, I've done super-slo mo studies on my rounds. When the steel tips impact a target, they squash back into the lead and bonded alloy skin of the bullet, so the lead petals of the round spread out, doing maximum damage. My rounds have a devastating combination of penetration and mushrooming. Each cartridge also gets some magical attention. I have stage one with no magic, stage two with some magic and stage three with the most magic I can squeeze in.

It might be simpler if I only had stage threes, but the coin of my realm is now time. I can make ten stage twos for every stage three and I need volume.

I keep my Glock on me at all times, and even now, it's sitting on the dining room table next to me.

In addition, guns aren't the only thing I do. With a lot of tedious and painful exercise and martial arts practice, I've been able to push up my strength from low average to high average. I also don't seem to be suffering from aging nearly as much as much as my fellow humans. That said, I have a few charms that I've put together to help. They make me stronger, faster, more agile and sharpen my senses. I'm not Spider Man, but I'm working on it as I constantly work to improve my craft.

As I muse about my Glock and whether I should let Diane delay my important work on the bolts, the phone rings.

That's a surprise. The girls each have their own cell phones and conduct their personal business on them. They don't use the house phone. I didn't even have to make that an edict, the girls are too modern to want to interact with something as old fashioned as a house phone. I have my own personal cell and conduct what few calls I make on that, mostly to the girls. The house phone isn't listed and is mostly for emergency situations, calls from house phones will bring emergency help more quickly than cells and it's basically free with the cable and internet package.

Holly walked in and put a handset by my hand. Holly is the third and last girl currently living in my home. She's studying Hospitality Management and she does the cleaning and laundry about the place. Holly is a tall Nordic girl with amazing long legs and blonde hair. She's also gives the evolutionarily valuable signal, quite strongly, that she would be very effective lactating for an infant. She was also wearing a bikini-like lingerie ensemble that vaguely alluded to being a maid.

I picked up the phone and answered, "Hello."

"Is this Dr. Fox?" The male voice at the other end of the phone asked.

"May I ask who's calling?" I replied.

"My name is Jake Black. Is this Fox?" Jake replied with a bit of an edge.

"Yes, this is Dr. Fox, may I ask what this call is in regard too?" I continued to inquire.

"I'm in trouble. I need help. I was told you were someone who could help." Jake answered.

"What sort of trouble?" I asked.

"I don't want to say on the phone. Could we meet somewhere?" Jake said with a touch of desperation.

I paused. I've heard of the wizard in Chicago who supposedly rents out his talent like a private detective. I've also heard that the White Council of Wizards has a police force called "Wardens" who supposedly enforce some unpublished set of rules, but mostly seem to hunt people like me down and chop off their heads.

I'm not a private detective. I'm also not a member of the police, though not for lack of trying. I likely already have more money than I will ever be able to spend. Avoiding conflict and not pushing myself to the top of any powerful being's shit list are important parts of my defensive plan.

I had spent the better part of the last ten years trying to make myself a tough nut to crack. Meeting this Jake would essentially be giving him and any associates he had a free crack at me.

However, there was another piece of the equation. I had no real allies. Allies who genuinely care about you and who will face danger on your behalf are a key force multiplier in building the strength of one's deterrence, particularly of a weak player like me.

Yes, I could get more "friends" with seemings, but not the right kind. Seemings tended to not work well with magically gifted beings, their natural magic made the seeming fade. Further, seemings did not seem to work very well with serious, tough minded people either. I'd tried to offer my services as a volunteer to the Omaha Police Department and had been rebuffed when the Detective looked right through my seeming and decided I was a phony. Yes, when a seeming fails, it tends to give the seemie a strong, and perhaps deserved, sense that one is a phony which can have negative consequences.

Perhaps sensing my indecision, Jake added an urgent, "Please!"

I answered tersely, "Do you know where the Starbucks by 72nd and Dodge is?"

"I can find it." He answered.

"Be there in a half an hour." I answered and hung up.

Why did I say I would meet him? I had good reason not to. I'd seen the White Man. I had endured attacks since, like the one from Forest Man. This could well be a set up. The answer, I suppose, is that I've been hiding for ten years. Ever since that night with the White Man. Frequently in nature, the most dangerous thing is not the injury, but an organism's response to that injury. The human body's over-responding with swelling and inflammation to injury is frequently more dangerous than the original injury. The attacks on 9/11 were bad, but they shouldn't have crashed our economy.

Really, the White Man had put fear in me. I had been running inside ever since. The only way to stop him from continuing to hurt me was to stop running. It's simple and true, but not easy. 

I pulled on my hat, vest, shoes and coat. I put my Glock in my pocket and checked that my axe was where it belonged. I walked to my garage, got in my truck and drove around the corner to the Starbucks.

I may be boldly trying to stop running, by I still take some reasonable precautions. I'm a bit obsessive and compulsive about my gear these days. No part of my gear avoids intense review and modification. In my defense, I made the conscious choice NOT to bring or wear my gauntlets, leg armor and rifle.

So why did I choose Starbucks? I know in Chicago they have that wonderful accorded neutral ground. I'd visited the last time I was in Chicago and the steak sandwich and lemonade were delicious. Of course, someone like me still shouldn't go. I probably won't get eaten in the dining room, but a big fish hanging about the place might notice me and that's not the sort of attention I want. We don't have anything like that place here in Omaha, there isn't enough of a magical community to warrant it.

Omaha has a very limited magic community. As for vamps, the prey pool is too small for black vamps for anything but passing through. People disappearing in Chicago and LA happen all the time. In Omaha? People notice and look. White vamps think going to Omaha is a punishment, I know, I read their e-mail. Red vamps barely consider Chicago to be worth noticing, that's why they only sent a fifth-rate player to set up shop there. Omaha is completely off their radar. By and large, Omaha, due to her small size and remote location, exists in a state of benign neglect from the magical world. I knew, intellectually, that the White Council of Wizards had been fighting a massive war against the Red Court of Vampires. In the backwater of Omaha, we were being allowed to ignore it.

The previous week had been unusually exciting for Omaha. I had seen two wardens of the White Council in their grey cloaks walking down the street in the warehouse district as I had a beer and ate some appetizers at the food festival. My neck was immediately nervous. The Wardens moved along and didn't even seem to notice me. Which was fine by me. I was a bit worried that it might mean some new front in their war might be opening here as well. Then to make it more interesting, a couple days later, I got a call, not an e-mail, from a Paranet contact asking me if anything strange had happened lately. I thought about my answer for a moment, it's not like I had an abundance of sympathy for the White Council, but I certainly had more for them than I did a bunch of disgusting vampires. I didn't want to inadvertently betray the White Council to the Red Court. In the end, considering the necks of others like me, which the Paranet essentially represented, I chose to mention the wardens as I had never seen anything like that before. I was wondering if all this had something to do with this morning's call?

Here in Omaha the limited magical community does include DiAngelo. He's the head of the local mob. He's a lieutenant of the guy who runs Chicago, who is deeply ingrained in that city's magical community. DiAngelo probably wouldn't be more than a third-tier guy in Chicago, but as the man in charge here, he's prince of the city in a practically unassailable position. In some ways, I suspect we might be alike. I've seen DiAngelo and a number of his boys, they're all vanilla human. But now I know he's tied into Chicago and their magical assets.

Then there's the Fomor, they don't have a real presence, but every so often, if one is looking for it, one can catch them sniffing around.

Then there's the fact that we're close to rural and wilderness in a way that a place like Chicago isn't and that has the magical equivalents of Deer, Coywolves and Cougars wandering in to sniff about.

As I drove to the Starbucks, I inevitably thought of another meeting at a restaurant. I like to go out to eat. It doesn't make much sense for me to eat out. Miranda puts breakfast in front of me every morning and will have an amazing dinner ready to go by five, unless I call. If she's home and I want lunch, she'll put something in front of me if I ask. If she's not home, or I don't ask, I know the fridge will have a handful of great options hanging about that I can quickly turn into a tasty, filling lunch. Going out makes no sense, but I do. It gets me out of the house and gives me a chance to have things in ways Miranda probably wouldn't make them.

There's this bar. They had a dollar taco special on Tuesdays. They were pretty good tacos, made in the bar's kitchen. Despite that, the place is frequently empty, I don't know how he pays the rent. I had gone there with an appetite and plans to eat a few tacos, ogle the barmaid and read my paper in an atmosphere of pleasant quiet.

So, I'm sitting there, reading my paper and eating my tacos in an otherwise empty bar, minding my own business, when five of DiAngelo's boys walk in. I notice but I don't do anything, maybe they're here for tacos? Back then, I didn't even know they were connected to Chicago or what kind of assets Chicago had.

Four of the five mob boys settle down into tables surrounding me. The fifth starts walking around behind me and talking.

"We think you know who this town belongs to. You do business here, but you never pay your percentage. We're always doing things for you and do we get even a 'Thank-you' back, much less the kind of favors you could be so good…"

The first four guys are big, not crazy big, but jocks, like the ones who would hassle me in High-School. They have leering, knowing smiles and are clearly ready for something. They light up all of my resentments of jocks past. The fifth one is smaller, around five feet and slender. He starts walking behind me and has an annoying tone that makes me think he's gay. Not gay as in, 'I'm good at decorating and have liberal political ideas,' much more the urban version of banjo playing. As he says "so good" he touches the back of my neck in way that feels sexual and threatening. I lose it.

I grab number five by his hair as I stand up and draw my Glock. I'm packing #2 that day and, at a speed that would do me proud in a USPSA match, I put a bullet in the face of each of the other four. Later media reports indicate that the proprietor, who was in the back, heard only one shot at the time. I drag number five by his hair as I walk around checking his friends. Two are dead and two get extra shots in the chest.

It's only at this point that number five starts pulling out his sidearm from under his jacket. I let go of number five's hair and take the pistol from him in a way that I'm pretty sure breaks some fingers. I toss the gun into the corner. Then I grab number five's head again, tilting it back. I put the nose of my still smoking gun into his nostril, likely burning it. This stops his screaming and gets his attention.

"Tell your boss that I am independent. I don't pay. I don't do favors. If he tangles with me again. We will be at war. He may win, but I'll make sure he dies in the fighting. If he wants to restore the peace. He will pay me a wergild for this intrusion. Soon. Or I will assume we are at war. Can you convey that message?"

Got to give number five credit, he starts blowing his mouth about how, "My boss is gonna put you in the ground." Yada yada yada.

I give him a shake and say, "If you cannot convey my message, your life has no value to me."

"I'll do it," he yelps.

"Swear on your life." I reply.

"I swear man, I swear." He answers.

Something comes out of me. Some magic I don't even know comes from my body to his.

"You know something of what I'm capable. If you don't convey my message, exactly, your oath will be binding." And with that I throw him down sideways and he scuttles from the bar. I had meant that last statement as a bluff. I'm not capable of anything that will kill a person for failing to keep their word, but that strange magic makes me feel like maybe it's the truth? Something happened.

Coming to my senses. I holster my pistol and get the hell out. I retreat to my home and go back into neurotic hiding. Will they call the Police? Will they come themselves? What's about to happen?

I watch the news. It's a big deal in Omaha. Violent, apparently gangland, confrontation. Four dead. That doesn't happen in Omaha. It's everything that makes a good summer news story lead. It crosses into national news.

I can read everybody's e-mail and I do. The Police mostly don't care, seeing as the four dead were mobsters. They like that someone has taken out the trash in a way that minimizes tax payer costs. They're worried that this will start some sort of mob war and theories about Russian, Hispanic and Black organized crime infiltration run rampant. They're also pissed because they managed to recover three of my slugs. Even with bonding they can't be analyzed. However, the steel, armor piercing nose causes a lot of concern as cops, who had begun to think of themselves as bullet proof, realize someone out there is making very lethal rounds that will go right through their vests. They're worried they'll start to see these bullets on the street and would like to find the source. Also, there's some questions from newbs about why the witness only heard three shots when six shots were clearly fired. An older hand, whose name I recognize as a serious competitor at USPSA, points out that if a gun fires fast enough, three shots will sound like one.

Chicago is pissed at DiAngelo. Paying for four dead guys is going to cost a fortune. Quieting the situation is going to cost a fortune. Apparently, number five, Kibi "Kinky" Albici, a DiAngelo lieutenant, acted on his own. They instruct DiAngelo to make peace.

The Police get nowhere in their investigation and then, strangely, just stop.

Kinky shows up at my driveway fence. He hands me a letter through the fence, unopened, still sealed. I read the handwritten letter.

"Please excuse this one's actions. They were without sanction and will not be repeated. Please be assured we will be happy to keep the peace. The one delivering this message has been instructed to accept an in invitation to enter your property. If you need a wergild, he need not leave."

A person's life for an apology. "These are serious guys." I think to myself.

I look up at the nervous, but unsuspecting Kinky, "Go home. Tell your boss I accept the peace. Don't ever let me see you again. Get out of town."

On the positive side, I'm okay. I have conveyed, very clearly, to DiAngelo to leave me the hell alone. Perhaps I have found my inner badass?

Not so quick. I don't know where the hell that stuff had come from. I mean, it was me who pulled that trigger. That shooting was hundreds of hours of practice and USPSA matches backed up by my agility and speed magic. Grabbing the hair, what the hell was that? My practiced defensive routines should have had me pulling my axe in my left hand, not Kinky's hair. What was that magic? By the way, I liked that bar and now I can never go back.

In the end, it's the most violent incident I've ever had, and I have a mountain of questions I can't answer.

In addition, I've since been to Chicago. There was a thing for the Bright Futures Society, people with small but real magical talents to meet and greet, and I had decided that it was worth the risk. Most of it had been modestly useful crafts with just a touch of magic like knitting and making doilies. I had learned some useful things about how to make my hat, met a very nice vanilla human corporate attorney who still visits sometimes and that's when I learned some rejects from seventies era Dr. Who episodes with a Little Mermaid theme called Fomor were bothering magic people.

I also learned DiAngelo's boss was providing security. I didn't like that. I had gotten an eyeball on some of what DiAngelo's boss had available. I got a few good solid looks at these guys. I think they were called "Here Jars?" They stood seven plus feet tall and looked like they had been carved from rock, a lot of rock. I'd love to say I had good bead on what the hell they were, but that's a negative. I DO know they were powerfully magical and very old. Very old is bad. Very bad. Experience is the best teacher.

You don't think so? You're in your forties and you think you know what you're doing? Imagine a typical, maybe even bright, ten-year-old. How long do you think it would take you to pull apart the best defenses he could pull together? Someone who's two hundred would have an even bigger advantage over you, proportionally.

They also had at least one of what I've called since, the "Tall Blond." She stood at least six feet tall. She carried a tablet as clipboard and had some sort of earpiece for communication. She wore a not particularly revealing business pant suit but could not hide she was hyper-fit and hot like a living Nagel painting. She was in charge of security and I got one short look at her. She was power on at least another order of magnitude from the Here Jars. I'm sure if I ever pissed the Mob off enough, the Tall Blond and a few Here Jars could come out one night, come straight through my defenses and do for me without breaking much of a sweat. Still think I'm too cautious?

So, as I went to my meeting at Starbucks, I was not without caution. I had set the meeting for half an hour away. Pretty much just enough time to jump in a car and get there from any part of the city. If Jake wanted to ambush me, he wouldn't have a lot of time to set up. Lastly, I'd picked Starbucks as a place to meet. I don't much go there.

It's not that I hate Starbucks, I like a nice hot chocolate as much as the next guy and their danish are decent by chain standards. But Miranda can make a hot chocolate that will make the angels weep and the danish she'll put beside it will be better than any that can be bought for mere money within five hundred miles and maybe further, she's getting better all the time. If this meeting went south and I could never go back to this Starbucks, it wouldn't be a big loss.

I pull into the Starbuck's lot and back my pickup in to park. I pick a spot I'll be able to see from inside. Not hard to do. Omaha has excellent parking and it's a mid-morning slow time. I saunter into the shop, get a fizzy orange soda and a cookie, then sit down in a comfy chair to wait, making sure I'm back to the wall with a view of my truck. I think how a sniper might be setting up right now across the way. Sitting by the window makes me an excellent target. Are Here Jars about to smash in from every direction? Is the wall behind me about to explode with molten bits of shaped charge? Is some magical attack I can't even conceive of about to hit?

A guy rolls into the lot on an old, big blocked, Honda UJM bike, looks a little rusty, the sound tells me the motor could use a bit of work too. The guy gets off the bike. He's tall, tanned skin from lots of time in the sun, dark complected, with black hair and a three-day beard. He's pretty cut. He's wearing a dirty, well-worn t-shirt and jeans. The jeans have small tears, not artful, but like he's worn them on a lot of jobsites. Well-worn work boots. He walks into the Starbuck's like he's going to the principal's office.

I get a long hard look at him as he walks toward me. He's no vanilla human. There's magic in him in a pattern I've never seen before, which isn't saying much.

His look says he could just be some contractor taking a mid-morning break, but he sees me immediately and walks over. I had been the only customer in the place.

"Dr. Fox?" The same voice from the phone asks.

"Yes Jake?" I reply.

"Yeah." He answers and sits down across from me.

"Are you thirsty? Hungry?" I ask.

"No. I'm fine." He answers, but my intuition says different.

I wave my orange soda to the counter girl, "Get me another of these." 

I survey the menu I've mostly ignored to this point. I don't much like the food at Starbucks, pretentious, over-priced and under quality, but I see something that looks like a turkey sandwich which seems to be the most solid food on the menu.

"and get me two of those..." I read of the incantation of random hip and trendy words which is the Starbuck's language for turkey sandwich.

We stare at each other for a few moments while the counter girls pull together my order. I'm trying to trust my intuition and make good guesses as to how to handle this. In the magic world, hospitality can be a big deal and since I picked the place and arrived first, I'm the nominal host. I also know people who are hungry and thirsty generally don't respond as well as people who are fed and comfortable. Lastly, if I do something for this person, it's because I want a positive long-term relationship. A kind gesture is never a bad way to start under these circumstances.

The counter girl brings over the drink and sandwiches and makes to put them in front of me, I gesture, "No for him."

The counter girl is happy to oblige, the guy looks like the cover of a romance novel. I give her a twenty and say, "Keep the change."

She wanders back to the counter, does the transaction in the register, and throws the change in the tip jar.

Jake looks at me confused.

"You looked hungry, please, be my guest." I say politely.

Jake doesn't have to be asked twice. He eats both sandwiches in four bites and drinks the soda in one swallow. A few deep breaths later and he does look better.

"What sort of help did you need?" I prompt.

"They got my girl. The Fomor. I need help to get her away from them." He replies with a thick Boston accent that makes the "my" sound like "mah."

So, the Fomor are sniffing around Omaha again.

"Do you have any idea where she is right now?" I ask.

"Yeah," he answers, "I'm good at tracking. I tracked her down to a place near the airport, by the river."

That meant Carter Lake, a historically lawless hellhole.

"So, what do you want from me?" I ask.

"I need help to get her out." He says.

Just what I've been dreading. Not "Help making a doily," or "Get my bike tuned just right so I can go in."

No, he expects me to be some kind of magic commando. Take on one of the most powerful magical factions on the planet, and, if successful, move right to the top of their shit list. For what?

"How did you hear about me?"

"Some friends in the Bright Futures Society told me about you. They said you knew more about Omaha than anyone and might be able to help." He said in a low tone, looking down at the table.

"Do you have any money?" I asked.

That got his attention, he looked up suddenly, an angry look on his face, "Money? So, you're some kind of mercenary? Just another thug for pay."

His tone annoyed me, and it showed in my voice.

"You're asking me to put my ass on the line and move myself to the top of some pretty powerful and nasty buggity boo's shit list. For what exactly? The way I see it, you have four choices. One, you could go kick the door in all by yourself. The fact that you're here is a good sign that you have the sense to know you'll just get your but kicked and your girl dead or worse. Two, you could go to the police. Even if you get past the 'Help me, my girlfriends been kidnapped by creatures from the black lagoon.' and get them to come out in force, they're not ready for what they'll see inside. Lots of dead cops and probably a dead girlfriend. Third, you could go to the Mob. They don't have anything local that could get the job done and how long does your girl have? Even if they bite hard and race in the resources, you'll owe them. Big. Probably almost as bad as the Fomor. So that leaves me. Let me give you some advice, when you're asking someone to die for you, it pays to be polite."

He looked sullen and didn't answer.

"Well?" I said, perhaps more sharply than I meant.

"I didn't even think of two and three." He admitted.

He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. I could tell he wasn't used to being told off. He was also probably crazy scared for his girl.

I continued in a gentler tone, "I ask about money, because if we do this thing, it will cost. Cars will need to be rented, stuff will need to be bought. When you're trying to pull something off, money just burns, and you have to spend. So, do you have money?"

He looked down from the ceiling and said, "No, I don't have any money. I could barely afford gas to get to this meeting."

"Fine." I said. "Just so I have this straight, you want me to sign up for a suicide mission, if I happen to survive, move myself right to the top of the Fomor shit list and you want me to pay for it. Is that about right?"

He gave me a funny look and nodded, "I didn't really think about it costing money."

I suppose that answer could have pissed me off, but I had a sudden insight. The man sitting in front of me was just not that complicated. Not everyone is a Machiavellian conspirator, many are just simple. It made me want to look after him.

"Are you local to Omaha? I've never seen you around before." I asked in a more pleasant tone.

"No." He answered.

I waited for a moment for him to elaborate and realized he wouldn't.

"So, what brought you to Omaha?" I asked.

"We were traveling. She was riding with me on the bike. She had our money, cell phone, pretty much everything."

That meant he had other reasons to want her back, but I suspected they weren't important to him.

"I know you're probably not used to opening up and talking a lot to someone. But I want you to tell me pretty much everything you know. It's possible that something that seems like a very small detail could tell me something critical that will help me save her. Also, I'm asking you to be candid with me so you should know, I'm not some super badass, I'll need every edge I can get if I help you to have any chance of getting us all out of this alive."

It was that moment I started to put feelers into his mind. Maybe it's wrong, but I had to know, was he was telling the truth? Going into someone's mind can do terrible things. Yes, you can make them cluck like a chicken, but moving their mental furniture is always damaging, move too much and the person can die or worse. What I was doing was just to look. It would probably feel like a minor headache but shouldn't cause any serious damage.

He didn't seem to know where to start, so I asked, "What's your girlfriend's name? Where did you meet?"

"Her name is Cassie." He answered. "I used to live in Lowell. I met her one night when I went with a bunch of guys into Boston. We hit it right off. She is so beautiful, and she liked me. I could tell she'd had it rough and I think she liked having a big guy around who would protect her. I asked why she warmed up to me so fast, that doesn't happen a lot."

My feelers told me he was being honest. I suspected he didn't know his appeal. The three female Starbucks employees hadn't stopped staring at him since he came in.

"She said, 'I can tell you have a good heart and that you'll always come for me.' Don't you get it? I have to come through for her. No matter what. That means I need you and I hope you're enough."

Well that was fair. I knew he was telling the truth, but something sounded wrong.

"Tell me about yourself, I can see you're not a normal person?" I asked.

He looked down, and then up looking for all the world like the lost, very cut, best looking Baldwin brother, "I'm a werewolf. I turn into a wolf once a month. I can't really control it very well."

"Really? That's very interesting. I've never met a werewolf before. I think they're a few in Chicago, did you pass through Chicago?"

"No, Cassie thought Chicago was dangerous and had us loop south." He answered.

"What about Cassie, what's her deal?" I continued.

"Cassie," at this he looked uncomfortable, "I'm not supposed to say, but she's a Seer, she can see the future."

"Too bad she couldn't see getting captured." I said with more snark in my tone than I meant.

"Hey! She can't see everything. Sometimes they're only maybes or far away or far in the future. Sometimes she can see who's going to win a game or horse race. That's how we made money, well she made money. She can't see everything, she sees what she sees." He answered.

"How did she get caught?" I asked.

"We stopped for the night at a rest stop just east of Omaha. It was a full moon, I had to change, and we wanted to be way out of town when that happened. She was supposed to hide out and wait till dawn. They came and got her while I was changing. I still was able to track her down. I could follow her scent and the scent of the van and the scent of the Fomor. The Fomor have a real stink about them."

"How did you come to me?"

"I posted on the Paranet asking if anyone knew anything about Omaha. You're all there is."

Once again, networking bites me in the ass.

"What exactly would I get for spending a big pile of money and putting my ass far across the line?" I asked, getting to the heart of the problem.

"What do you think I have to give? I have no money. Chances are Cassie doesn't anymore either. I have the clothes on my back and a bike on it's last legs, do you want the bike?" He answered, genuinely confused and frustrated.

"Well, I have a very nice life. I have lots of money and nice things. I don't want to lose them. If I put my life and safety on the line, could I expect the same from you?" I asked probably sounding lonelier and more vulnerable than I should have.

"Well, yeah. Of course. If you come through for us, then sure. If you were ever in trouble and needed help, I'd be there for you." He answered and I could feel his sincerity.

"I've never met a werewolf before. After this is done, assuming we get safely away, would you give me a chance to study you? I assure you that I would cause you no harm." I asked.

"Well yeah." He answered. This question worried him on several fronts, including wondering if I was some kind of pervert and he had assumed, despite my earlier protests that I was a total badass, and finding out that I had never met a werewolf before shook that.

"Is there anything else I haven't asked that you think I should know?" I asked.

"No, I can't think of anything." He answered honestly.

Thinking with some regret about bolts I needed to work on I said, "Then let's go for a drive."

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	3. Chapter 3

Warlock of Omaha

Chapter 3: This Way Lies Madness

I know I'm a bit obsessive-compulsive. Sometimes it's a strength. I can focus and work on problems with an intensity I know many can't match. Mostly, it's a problem. I know it's part of why I'm not as empathic as most people. I watch "Big Bang Theory," even though I feel like it's more mocking to the geeks and nerds than sympathetic, because the character of Sheldon is a gift. I don't much like Sheldon. He's selfish and self-centered. Being OC isn't an excuse for everything. I see too much of myself in Sheldon sometimes. He makes a good cautionary tale.

On my grounds, I have a garage. From the main house, one has to walk down a short hallway from a door near the kitchen to get to it. It's a pretty big garage. It holds several vehicles, a motorcycle and a mid-size RV I use for some field trips. Not to mention an extensive fab, repair and re-build space. I park my half-ton Dodge Pickup in there, the girls' Subaru, a cool custom Jeep Wrangler pickup, a Nissan GTR and an Infiniti FX 60 among other things. There's also a Nissan Juke I have spent way too much time on.

Above the door near the kitchen there's a sign that reads, "This Way Lies Madness." The girls all have different explanations of what that means.

The sign really is a warning to me. I've spent the years since the White Man's wakeup call working to make myself a tougher nut to crack. If something out there wants to try and eat me or dominate me or worse, my best and only defense is to make myself so nasty that it's not worth it. That means making myself as strong as I can be. Strength can mean many things, but it certainly includes physical power. One obvious sphere of power is to have a powerful vehicle. If I ever get into a situation where I have to fight from my vehicle, the tougher my vehicle is, the better chance I have to survive.

The thing is, vehicles are one of many spheres. And like many of them, it's deep. There are so many different makes and models of vehicles in the world and that's just the top of the ocean. Beneath the stock models is a completely bottomless ocean of parts and modifications. If one goes to the SEMA show in Las Vegas, and I have, several times, one will see thousands of booths, each with entire catalogs of parts. It could take years to review just one show, and they're only there for a few days and one only has so much time between trying to seduce booth girls. So far, my record is six.

Further, I only have so much time. I sleep about nine hours a day. My waking hours include basic hygiene, eating, playing, etc. There is only so much time during the day. That's why time is the coin of my realm. I have plenty of money and could get more easily if I needed it. I have physical companionship, pleasant surroundings, etc. The limiting factor in what I can achieve and do is time.

I'm also still a bit irrational. I should trade the Dodge for a heavier vehicle to pull a trailer rather than an RV and drive the Jeep around. Instead, I find myself trading the Dodge every few years and when it's time to jump into something and go do an errand? I take the Dodge.

So how do I handle it? I buy a top of the line Dodge pickup and take it to a local place I like. Jed, the owner, is deep in the local street racer culture and spends his life knowing the ins and outs of what's available. The truck gets a cold air intake, dual turbos, a supercharger and some other knick knacks under the hood. Underneath she gets improved, but not crazy loud, exhaust, up rated suspension with air ride, bigger stronger wheels with bigger stronger run flat tires. Inside, she gets a very serious space frame cage, some nice seats that are still cushy but have five-point harnesses, and other safety considerations. Lastly, she gets ceramic door inserts, floor and roof and more resilient glass. She still looks and feels like a luxury truck, not a refugee from a road warrior movie, but she has some bottom if things get messy. It may sound like a lot of work, but trust me, there is a world of performance, including NOX, that does not go in. More importantly for me, Jed does it. I pay him fairly, including letting him keep all the brand-new parts he just took off my stock truck. I depend on Jed's advice as to what are the best parts to put in. Jed knows his work will be heavily inspected. Further, I'm a serious, educated, repeat, cash cow customer so I get good recommendations and work. It's not time free, but I offload a huge number of hours of research and building onto him and I get back a pretty cool truck.

I may sound smart, but the Nissan Juke is my constant reminder. I leave it in not running condition as a punishment to myself for pouring more and more time into trying to build an ever-crazier advanced car. The Juke sucked me in along with months of my life. It looked like the ultimate compromise car, small, light and quick handling, but also tough and able to handle some bad weather or rough terrain. I won't go through all the crazy stuff I tried, including times I had it running with amazing stuff working and then tore it all apart to rebuild with a whole new generation of crazy. I know I can't go down the rabbit hole and focus like that on a car and burn way too much time on it. My penance includes that the battery pack sits on the floor behind the car and the engine and transmission on the floor underneath.

Madness is letting myself get focused on one small thing to the exclusion of the many balls that must to be juggled. Like the bolts I'm currently not working on.

Of course, there's a flipside to that coin and that would be Baby.

When it came time to replace the shotgun, the obvious successors were two guns, a pistol and a rifle. A pistol is less capable but can be kept nearby at all times and can be kept discreet out in public. A rifle is more ostentatious, but also orders of magnitude more capable for those times when it's necessary. You already know what pistol I chose, but what rifle? Well that's where a trip down the rabbit hole worked out pretty well.

The most popular rifle on the United States civilian market is the AR. Don't let the name fool you, the M-16 and M-4 used by the military are members of the AR family. The finest gun development lab on Earth, by many orders of magnitude, is the US civilian marketplace. By rights, the US military should have a rifle that is head and shoulders better than any other military on the planet. The problem is, long ago, the US military chose the AR and the AR is a dog. The direct impingement action that the AR runs breaks both the cardinal rules of military rifle design, it's inherently unreliable and complex. Unfortunately, because it's the US military rifle, it's going to be popular on the US civilian marketplace and soak up the lion's share of that free civilian development. Which means new versions of the AR have been periodically rolled out keeping this hot mess just good enough to stay in the US military inventory for decades.

The AR does have some strengths. One is versatility. One can keep the same bottom half, or lower, and switch the top half, or upper relatively easily. Different uppers can be very different for different jobs, hence versatility. Near the high end of what the AR can handle in ammunition size is something called the .50 (pronounced: "fifty") Beowulf. I decided that would make a good top end for my rifle choice. Are there other even bigger rounds I could have chosen? Yes. I admit part of it was the name ".50 Beowulf" just sounds cool. However, most rifle rounds, when one starts getting into that size class, start focusing on long range accuracy. The .50 Beo, with it's big slug and relatively small powder charge, is all about focusing on causing massive damage to a target, which I did want, not extended range I would likely never need. If you wanted a practical combat weapon, smaller rounds would give you more range, speed, controllability and ability to carry more rounds. Practically, the .50 Beo makes no sense in the mundane world, it's a classic unicorn hunter designed to kill monsters we know don't exist, except they do.

Since the .50 Beo lives a little in the AR world I can use some AR accessories. For example, the .50 Beo doesn't require weird, exotic, crazy expensive magazines. It will work in the same 5.56 mags that normal ARs use, which means I can use cheap off the shelf mags, or in my case, crazy expensive high-performance off-the-shelf mags and mag holders. Major time saved.

It would be nice if there was an off-the-shelf rifle that shot the .50 Beo, but since the only rifle that shoots the .50 Beo is an AR and you know how I feel about ARs, I had to pick something else knowing modification would be necessary. I looked over everything on the market. Firearms are a deep ocean, but not as deep as cars. I picked the Tavor.

The Tavor is a bullpup rifle made by Israel Weapons Industry. The Israeli design philosophy is very focused on form follows function which means they aren't likely to produce a .50 Beo version any time soon. So, I bought a Tavor, it sits in a safe on the premises to this day. The gun I take out and use is nominally that rifle, but really is fabbed from the ground up. The Tavor has a polymer chassis, I made mine from titanium reinforced carbon fiber. Mine has a mag release button up by the shooting hand, like the military Tavor rifles in Israel, not the funny lever like on the US civilian release. My Tavor keeps the oversized hand guard and rubberized fore-grip like the civilian release.

In the modern world, the main rival to the AR family of rifles is the AK. The AK family of rifles are the ones made by Russia and used by all the bad guys, both real and in the movies. Unlike the AR's direct impingement system, the AK and Tavor both use a long throw piston system. One could, with quite a bit of merit, argue that the Tavor is basically a modernized, bullpup AK. Unlike the AR, the AK family of rifles have a well-earned reputation for incredible simplicity and reliability.

The biggest knock on the Tavor, and bullpup designs in general, is that they have poor triggers. Triggers, as the ultimate interface between shooter and weapon, are critical for fast, accurate shooting. Unfortunately, the stock Tavor trigger lives up to this bad reputation with a very heavy and gritty pull. Luckily, with the Tavor now available on the US market, some of that US civilian marketplace love has been poured on it. A key example of the power of the US civilian marketplace is a company devoted to trigger design and development known as Geissele. Geissele has been kind enough to create an improved trigger pack and Lightning Trigger Bow for the Tavor rifle which, when installed, give the Tavor excellent trigger performance.

I use Geissele's Lightning Trigger Bow stock, but the trigger pack I re-did because I wanted 3 round groups and full auto as options and the version Geissele makes doesn't have select fire but having Geissele's model to work from was enormously valuable. I take the rifle out in public and only fire and safe show on the switch, but 3 round and full auto are there. The AR that runs the .50 Beo uses a bolt designed for the 7.62x39 caliber, luckily such a bolt exists for the Tavor, but it has not been released in the US. I stole the CAD design instructions and made a dozen copies in my shop from much higher-grade stainless steel than they would normally use for such a part. Works great. The biggest trick in fabbing out the new .50 Beo Tavor was not producing or assembling the parts, but rather since they often were different sizes, weights and pressures than the original, the system had to be re-tuned for balance and reliable operation. I've kept some features like quick disconnect sling mounts, but have ditched others, like my rifle is not set to be ambidextrous with replacement bolt.

The ammo I produced was a 400-grain boat tailed, bonded hollow point with steel tip penetrator a little like the M-855 version of the 5.56 that NATO uses. A bullet has all the constraints of aerodynamics and Newton's laws of motion. Accuracy and range comes from idealizing the bullet's air-smooth shape and use of the most and best propellant possible. As I explained before about ammunition, or cartridges, are actually small systems of their own. I bought the brass shells, primers and powder in extremely high quantity. I have tens of thousands of finished rounds stored in several places around the home, and storage depots around the country, so they can't all be destroyed in one hit. I probably have ten times as much in unassembled makings. I buy when the market is cheap, directly from large distributors. My .50 Beo is essentially a larger version of my 10mm I described earlier. The bonded hollow point is designed to squash flat while still penetrating deep into the target and causing massive wounds. The boat tail is a more aerodynamic shape meaning it will fly farther truer. Many manufacturers are experimenting with placing polypropylene tips on their hollow points now. The plastic still squashes nicely, is very light and gives a very non-aerodynamic hollow point a much more aerodynamic shape. I have poly tipped versions of my rounds which I use in public competition. For business, I have the very hard stainless-steel tips which still squash the hollow points but are so good against an armored or magic shell.

My most original invention for ammo is the shape of the base of the bullet. On a standard boat tail round, it comes to a flat bottom. I have removed some of that flat bottom material which is actually not very necessary and leave a precision carved tiny cup on the bottom. This reduces the weight of the slug in a useful way, but more importantly, helps it use more of the force from the propellant meaning my rounds have roughly a ten percent advantage in speed out of the barrel of the rifle, generally known as muzzle velocity. That translates into much harder hits and much longer range.

I can't say that I have an Auto Assault 12 on the premises. Having such a weapon would be very illegal for several reasons, including that it would have to be stolen. However, the AA-12 uses a long throw piston like the Tavor and AK family of rifles. The AA-12 has developed features to be even more robustly reliable and remove kick. I have used all of them. I also stole Benelli's gas block technology which gives my rifle remarkable reliability across a wide selection of rounds. That's probably not necessary as I always shoot my own home-made round, but better to have and not need then need and not have.

My biggest addition to the world of firearms though, is in the barrel. There are a huge number of considerations in making the ideal barrel. Length is generally determined by powder burn. The explosion of the powder when one pulls the trigger is what drives the bullet down the barrel and powers it to target. The barrel puts a spin on the bullet and focuses it on a particular path. One wants the barrel long enough that all the powder explosive force gets to add more speed. Too long, and the explosion runs out while the bullet is still in the barrel and then the barrel starts to slow the bullet down, reducing range and accuracy. I tested a huge number of barrel lengths, bullet sizes, twist rates and powder/primer combinations.

In addition, the longer the barrel is, the less handy it is, the harder to get around corners or drag through bushes. An AR should probably have a barrel around eighteen to twenty inches, but the US military's current issue rifle, the M-4, has a barrel that is ten inches, giving up substantial range and accuracy, because ten inches is much more handy.

I actually rented a spot on a local guy's farm and built a very narrow one-thousand-yard range. I promise that the farmer and I exchanged every spaghetti farming joke ever made during the process. I then invested a small fortune in measuring equipment. Most people who load their own ammo just measure speed out of the barrel, I needed to know speed downrange, that's expensive. The farmer was curious, and I taught him to be a useful assistant. We came to an agreement that I would not be charged rent, the equipment remained mine, but would stay on the farm, I had no place for it back home anyway, and he could help others as he helped me. I know he's made a lucrative side business of helping various cartridge manufacturers test various loads.

It took a lot of testing, but I settled on a bullet, primer, powder and barrel length of 400 grains for bullet weight, barrel length of 18.2 inches and twist rate of 1:14. The primer and powder will be my secret.

One still has other needs for the barrel. The barrel should have a flash suppressor. A standard M-16 or M-4 uses what is known as an A-2 birdcage design which is almost no help at all. Particularly in the dark, flash is a key giveaway, good flash suppression is critical in tactical situations in the dark.

A good barrel will be recoil compensated. The blast force of the powder will naturally shove the rifle back, better known as kick. Remember Newton's Laws of Motion? However, if one catches some of this blast power against the end of the barrel, that backwards recoil can be lightened, or compensated. Standard issue military rifles don't do this at all.

A good barrel will be sound suppressed. There is a basic reason military rifles are not sound suppressed. The US military is almost wholly dependent on civilian R&D for improvements. Gun control activists, in their infinite wisdom, have succeeded in making sound suppressors just shy of illegal and thus removed them almost completely from the civilian R&D world and from soldiers' hands. How many US soldiers have died for this sleazy bit of pointless, zero-sum game "common sense" from gun control activists in just our recent adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan? My educated guess is it's in the thousands. Strangely, this sort of maneuver on the part of gun control activists makes gun rights partisans a little leery of more "reasonable compromises."

I don't want to fight the whole gun control debate right here, but what law can any sane person believe will take a single gun out of the hands of criminals when fifty plus years of war on drugs is yet to take drugs out of the hands of a single person? While I feel very badly for the hundreds of people who die wrongly by gun violence each year, I remember the millions who are protected by their legal ownership. My sympathies are with the millions.

That said, a barrel should have good sound suppression built in as well, the longer it takes the other guy to figure out where you are by sight and sound, the more likely you are to come home.

Another new design idea is for the barrel to have heat sink-like cooling fins. This keeps the barrel cooler longer if it needs to fire in high-volume. I didn't really ever expect to have to fire the rifle in three round bursts, much less in long, high intensity confrontations, but better to have and not need then need and not have.

Another new design idea is that some of the steel material of the barrel be replaced with a carbon fiber wrap, allowing the barrel to be stronger, but lighter.

Another design concern is whip. If one was to watch a barrel, particularly of long length, high caliber and thin walls on very high-speed film, one would see that it whips, like a high-pressure water hose. That's bad for accuracy. That means the barrel needs to be strong enough not to whip.

I feel like most gun design is a bit prehistoric, still in the, "If it needs to be stronger, add more metal, ugga ugga!" stage.

I'm not a design genius. Most of the tricks I've done with my stuff has just been figuring out who had the best mouse trap already and adapting it to my needs. But, early on in life, I did get one excellent lesson about design. I had a science teacher in high-school my Dad loved. He got me involved in a design contest and I learned some very important lessons there. The contest was a model bridge building contest. Each kid would get a set amount of balsa wood and glue and would have to build a bridge across a set distance. The bridge that held the most weight won. One has to remember, this was before the Google age where one can just click up a search for good bridge designs in seconds. Trying to come up with any info in my home town, even with the good university library and well stocked local library was like picking hen's teeth. There was no internet. Phone calls anywhere were pre-break up ma bell expensive, were not looked on favorably by the parental units and I had no idea who to call. Trying to get periodicals or books not already in the library meant weeks and the contest was not that long. Most kids built slabs of flat balsa wood and glue ala "add more steel." Those were the weakest. The top contenders had delicate looking gossamer constructions that looked like the Golden Gate or George Washington bridges. Mine wasn't a slab, but it wasn't that fancy either, I came in fifth. I did learn a valuable lesson about design. Essentially, that structure can be far more valuable than material when one wants to build strong.

So, I have my own tooling and can produce cold hammer forged barrels with chrome linings. Yes, that's very unusual. I can't make barrels in great quantity, but how many do I need? My chrome linings are a little thicker than industry standard as that makes the barrel more durable. The chrome lining is where the rubber meets the road, so to speak, absorbing the abuse of bullets slamming down followed by, literally, burning hot corrosive gasses. The next level out from the chrome lining in my barrels is a thin steel shell, but strong, due to fluted ridges that spiral down the exterior, great for dissipating heat and creating strength with structure, not brute force. I have also created a jacket for my barrels that is made from high grade chromium steel, but also some exotic materials like carbon fiber and ceramic. The jacket works with the barrel in a way that makes the whole barrel a sound suppressor, which also works great as recoil compensator which also helps flash suppress which helps sound suppress, etc. I make all that stuff in a load bearing structure so it also all adds barrel strength, meaning no whip. The barrel is thick, not without weight, but light years ahead of current design. And I've tested. A barrel twice as thick made from solid steel isn't as strong or rigid. Bridge design rides again. The strength of the barrel lets me mount a really wicked standoff device.

By the way, it's also free floated, but you'll have to look up what that means.

So, what does this whole package get me, particularly with weeks' worth of magic poured in? Minute of angle accuracy at one thousand yards, high-quality sniper rifle-like accuracy from a caliber previously only thought of as effective at short range. Flash is almost completely eliminated. Recoil, from a caliber that normally shocks experienced shooters, is less than most staple guns. Sound is funny, it chuffs very little out the barrel, but snaps about fifty yards downrange when it pops through the sound barrier. Still every second they're trying to figure out where you are…

Oh, and if you're wondering just how capable .50 Beo is, there are plenty of videos on YouTube. I particularly like the one where the .50 Beo hit's the cement block and shatters it. My version is much more nasty.

We got in my truck and went for a drive. We drove out past the airport to Carter Lake and then along the Missouri river. Carter Lake is not that big a place and eventually Jake pointed and said, "That's the place."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yeah, I can smell her and those spoiled fish Fomor right now." He answered. I drove by casually and snapped a few pics with my smart phone. Then drove us back to town.

On the way back, we did some errands.

I stopped at a random cell phone place and bought a disposable phone with a thousand minutes and gave it to Jake.

"This is so I can contact you. You will be tempted to call Cassie. Don't. When you think it's too tempting. Don't. If you call her, that will reduce her odds of survival. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Jake answered sullenly.

"When you think you've come up with a way to call her that won't get her in more trouble. Don't. The Fomor have been playing the treachery game for thousands of years. They're smarter than you. They're smarter than me. They're smarter than both of us put together. Don't call. Whatever you think will happen, you'll end up telling them where your Grandma keeps her jewelry. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Jake answered a little more aggressively. I wanted to press more, but I could tell he would just dig in his heels.

I then took Jake back to his bike and had him follow me to a local Super 8. I checked in and gave Jake the room key, a business card from the hotel and a Visa Debit card with some money on it.

He was giving me a funny look.

"Do you want to have sex with me? Is that part of the price?" He asked.

I rolled my eyes.

"No. I'm putting you in a hotel room to cool your heels for a bit. There's a Super Target a block that way and there are restaurants all around here including two all-you-can-eat Chinese places." I said as I pointed in their general directions.

"There are plenty of gas stations so get your bike fueled. If you get lost, call the hotel and I'm sure they can give you directions back. If you need me, you now have my cell, call. If you want, you can order in delivery and just hole up in the room. No partying. No drugs. No alcohol. When this is done you can make yourself as blotto as you want, but I need you not in jail and sharp till then. Do you understand?"

He nodded. It seemed like he got it.

"I need you to sit tight here for a while. You can go out and do a little shopping and eating but stay close to the hotel. Feel free to buy yourself stuff if you need it, clothes, toiletries, food. Don't try and buy anything too expensive there's not that much on there."

He nodded again.

"Do you know how to drive a car?"

He nodded.

"I'm going to have a rental dropped off. You can use it for your errands or your bike, just don't do anything crazy."

He nodded.

"Is there anything else you need or want to say?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Then I'll see you later. Enjoy yourself but stay quiet. Make sure you're fed, rested and clean and both vehicles are fueled. On second thought, take the car to Target, buy a really good first-aid kit with extra bandages, tape and disinfectant. Ask the pharmacist for help. Tell him you're going hunting with some friends and you want to make sure you have everything you need if someone gets hurt or shot. Then buy it. Then leave it in the trunk of the car. Can you do that?" I continued.

"Yeah." He answered trying to look competent.

"Good. See you later."

Saying that I got in my truck and left.

*** And now a word from our sponsor! ***

Please don't miss that this is only the first exciting book in this series available for free! The original Warlock of Omaha Squared and Warlock of Omaha Cubed are also on this site!

If you enjoy Star Wars and my writing, you may also enjoy a series of three Star Wars novels I have written, all called Legend of the Harp!

This writer, like the story teller in the market of old, now has a hat out hoping for a small gratuity. There is no obligation and I'm grateful you took a moment to read. However, if my writing has found favor in your eyes, please take a moment to go to:

Pay

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.me

/hemaccabe

and throw in a little something, a dime, a quarter, a dollar, etc.

While I love to write, I do have a spouse and a child and a job and many other claims on my time that don't understand why I would spend so many hours banging on a keyboard. A small tangible return would help smooth the way to allow me to provide many more stories.

Please help. Thank-you.


	4. Chapter 4

Warlock of Omaha

Chapter 4: Lawyers, Guns and Money

So back at the lab, it was quiet. Holly was at class. Miranda and Diane were working on things at University. They were all grad students, classes are important and there's always something to do, something to study, some project to further and they had wasted the weekend too and were eager to be back at it.

So, with a batch of bolts begun and a sandwich in hand, Miranda's homemade pastrami and bread are hard to quantify, I started to feel a bit calmer.

Through one of my clients, I had access to some Dark Glass private detectives. I gave them a call and had them put a team of at least three around the building in Carter Lake 24/7 until further notice. Two on this side of the river and one on the other.

"Do you want any drone over flights or on premises reconnoiter?" He asked.

"Nothing overt please." I replied. "Keep sending me updates at the secure e-mail and don't spare the thermograph."

The thermograph would be able to look through walls and give me a good sense of what they had inside and if they had set up anything interesting.

I was watching the debit card and cell phone I had given Jake. He had put some fuel in the bike and ate at a Chinese buffet so far.

I had an intuition about the Fomor. Sane people would use land transportation. If I had a typical young girl and needed to move her, well sedated in a box in the back of a van would likely be pretty convenient, cheap and fool proof. If I was really well heeled and, in a hurry, a chartered jet. But the Fomor would think of the water as their ally. I would bet good money there was something in the water on the dockside of that warehouse guarding it. I would also bet they'd want to use the water to move her. So, I looked around my contact list and found an expert on barge traffic.

Yes, they still use barges to move large cargoes of coal, cotton, oil and food crops up and down the river. I tracked down an expert on the matter at one of my clients, and I gave Sally Clark a call.

"Hello!" She answered promptly and cheerfully when I called by phone. I explained my problem, I was looking for a barge heading to Omaha without clear provenance.

"Well," Sally explained, "there are only so many barges and most have clearly defined paths, they want potential clients to know where they will be when, so they can get the next load. Time spent waiting or deadheading is expensive time lost for a barge."

After some review, we did find a barge moving in strange ways without clear provenance and it would be in Omaha by Friday afternoon.

That settled that, we had till Friday afternoon, which meant we were go for Thursday night.

I called a friend named Jim.

A lot of people reading this might be thinking, "He's taking advantage of those big financial company clients of his."

And maybe they're right. Of course, you don't get to be a big financial company without having broken a few eggs so it's not like they're charity cases deserving of great sympathy.

The truth is I do, for various reasons, spend time prowling around their networks and systems and I have detected irregularities which I have then reported to them. Whether and how they acted on those irregularities was their business. I have not noticed enough in any one firm to justify my fees directly. However, all of these firms depend on a reputation for fiduciary soundness and security. If any of these "irregularities" had popped on their own, the damage to the firms' reputation would have been potentially catastrophic, so I feel like I give good value for money.

Beyond money, I gain a wide variety of benefits and services. The Dark Glass boys cost a pretty penny, but I have discretion to use them from one of my clients, so they get to pay. I found Ms. Clark and got her candid help the same way. I also get unlimited sys admin access to a huge amount of the financial system so when I say I'm reading someone's e-mail, I am.

That said, I've found a few interesting situations as well. During one of our beloved country's financial crises I was reviewing various cases and when scanning files, noticed Jim was a fellow Omahan so just out of curiosity, I took a closer look.

Jim's an older guy, heavyset, has some health problems. He has a business here in Omaha where he sells boats to people, then orders the boat in from the manufacturer. The boats are shipped in pieces and Jim assembles them and puts them on trailers.

Jim's line of credit had been cut in the general panic and he couldn't secure new financing. The funny thing was, he had the orders, he just needed credit to buy the boats, so he could deliver. His business was on the verge of going belly up and his life on the rocks.

I called him up and said I had been referred by a mutual acquaintance and that I heard he needed financing. So, I then let him tell me for some time how much he needed the financing and would be a good credit risk etc. When he stopped to breath I offered him a line of credit at favorable terms, which he quickly agreed to. He borrowed money, he delivered boats, he paid me back in a timely manner. When things settled down a bit, he went on to find more conventional financing. I was satisfied and earned a decent return, but he always considered me a friend after that. I don't know why. He gave me the chance to make the world a better place.

I needed to go on the river and Jim always had a boat and knew well how to drive them.

I called Jim and set up to meet him at 7am the next day at a landing in Council Bluffs.

Just as I was finishing talking to Jim, I noticed Jake's cell phone was dialing a Massachusetts number. I hit a button that scrambled Jake's phone, he'd have to turn it off, leave it off for a few seconds and then do a full reboot. I had about a minute.

I used a series of cutouts and dialed Jake's Massachusetts number from a phone in Atlanta. It rang a few times and a female voice answered, "Jake is that you?"

"Cassie!" I replied in a very passable imitation of Jake.

"Jake please you…" answered the female voice as I hung up.

So, Jake was calling Cassie, curiouser and curiouser.

As Jake's phone came back online I called him.

"Yeah." He answered.

"Please, I asked you not to call Cassie. Please only use the phone to contact me." I replied.

"How did you know…" Jake began to ask.

"You asked for my help because I have magic powers. Now trust me and don't do stupid things that will get us killed." I said.

"Okay." He answered sullenly.

"Try to wait at the hotel, I'll have a car dropped off for you shortly." I told him.

"I will." He answered.

After I hung up, I arranged for a minivan to be delivered to the hotel by a local rental agency.

I then had an REIT in Dallas order a set of drawings with the layout of the building in question.

I kept working on my batch of bolts.

One may be wondering of the bolts.

The bolts represent a major effort on my part to make an alliance with a major supernatural power. On my visit to Chicago for the Bright Future Society conference I took a side trip to visit the Svartalves. The Svartalves are like the Switzerland of magical powers. Perhaps not the most powerful, but also, generally, not at war with anyone. While not the most powerful, they're badass enough that no one wants to mess with them. At least it seems as if everyone in the supernatural world who has the power to take them has others they have grudges with and the energy necessary to attack the Svartalves would sap them too much in their other grudges. In an ideal world, if I could ally with them, that would deter a huge number of buggity boos from messing with me. Even in a less ideal world, if I accidentally ran afoul of some other supernatural power, I might hope the Svartalves would be willing to mediate for me. In addition, the Svartalves are thought of as among the best craftspeople of the supernatural world and there was a huge amount I knew I could learn from them.

I had carefully contacted the Svartalves and arranged a meeting prior to the conference. The Svartalves will meet and sell things to people, generally by special commission. I hired a limousine for the evening. It brought me to a nice part of town. The Svartalves' home was a conspicuously nice building with remarkable architectural flourish. I was dropped at the sidewalk. I then walked across a very nice plaza and was buzzed through their front door without having to break stride. A human guard greeted me and walked me to a pleasant conference room where he asked me to sit. The room had sideboards all around with various pleasant conference roomy things, a water pitcher, large screen etc. The room was dominated, as would be appropriate, by a large conference table surrounded by comfortable looking chairs. Everything was made of wood, metal and leather. It was all really nice. Nothing said supernatural magic, or seemed unreasonable in and of itself, but it would take quite a budget and a remarkable sense of style to get anywhere close to a conference room like the one I was in. I sat at the chair nearest the door I had entered. The chair was as comfortable as it seemed.

I sat and waited for only a few minutes and a small man entered from a door on the opposite side of the room. The man didn't stop and let me get a good look at him, but I would guess his size at less than five feet and he was thinly built. It's conceivable he might be human, but boy he didn't seem human. He stopped at the other side of the table and said, "Welcome, I am Mr. Honi. I understand we may be of some service to you." His diction was perfect but had a bit of European lilt. His voice was high pitched and, once again, could have been human, but didn't seem to be.

Mr. Honi then sat down at the chair opposite me and nearest to the door he had entered.

I had been practicing for some time. I had read a number of warnings. The Svartalves were fairies and thus, very transactional. One could accidentally sell one's life for a glass of water or less. I wanted to be allies, not owned or worse.

"Hypothetically, I believe I might be of some service to you. I am a human craftsman of some small skill. There might be an exchange of craft that would be mutually beneficial. It would have to be understood that any exchange or agreement we would come to would need to be explicit and stated clearly. No agreement could be entered to implicitly. Ideally, while I understand that Svartalves like to interact transactionally and by their own custom, our agreements would be governed by human custom and further by what humans tend to think of as friendship and collegiality. It would then be my hope that friendship could grow between us built on good faith." I said as a prepared speech.

Mr. Honi looked at me for a moment and then said, "So you are a craftsman of some skill and would like to work with us. Very interesting. Do you have an example of your craft with you?"

That seemed like a really obvious question for which I had completely not prepared. I blinked a few times and took out my Glock. I drew it slowly and deliberately, removed the magazine and emptied the chamber. The bullet dropping to the table, making a clear metal on wood sound. Then I stood up, took the Glock barrel in my hand and handed it grip first to Mr. Honi.

Mr. Honi took the pistol. He checked it as safe and worked the action several times and then disassembled it down completely to constituent parts including the trigger assembly, without tools, really fast. He then picked up each part and examined it really carefully. That took a while.

Mr. Honi then reassembled the Glock in about a minute. It should be understood; the Glock is designed to be easily and quickly field disassembled by hand without tools. That does not include areas like the trigger assembly. I'm probably faster and smoother with my pistol than 95% of human gunsmiths. I might also add that my Glock was chock full of custom parts, many uniquely created and fitted by me, so it's not like he had practiced with a duplicate from a store. I wouldn't try to take my pistol apart the way Mr. Honi had unless I was at my bench with tools. If I could do it in under 30 minutes, I'd be proud. Reassembly would take substantially longer. Mr. Honi had done both, without tools, at a conference table, in under a minute each and it had seemed easy.

Mr. Honi handed me back my pistol the same way I handed it to him. I replaced the bullet in the magazine, re-installed my magazine, but deferred chambering it in Mr. Honi's presence, then holstered it.

Mr. Honi looked at me and said, "I will confer with my associates and then we will contact you if any opportunities to be, 'collegial' emerge. Thank-you for coming."

Then, before I could even think to say something, Mr. Honi got up, turned his back and walked back out the room the same way he came in.

While I was trying to figure out what had just happened, but before a minute went by, the security guy came back and showed me, politely, out of the building. I walked out, got back in my limousine and went back to the Palmer House.

I figured I had overplayed my hand and been politely rejected as I replayed the situation in my mind over and over. Maybe I should have been more obsequious? Maybe I had dodged a bullet, stories of mortals being taken advantage of by fey were legion.

Then fourteen months later I got an invitation to visit the Svartalves again. I traveled back to Chicago, checked into the Palmer House, got a limousine and visited the Svartalf enclave. I was shown to the same conference room. This time when Mr. Honi came in he brought in another Svartalf and introduced him, "This is Mr. Guna."

They took some time and explained they wanted me to make them some bolts. They gave me detailed CAD descriptions.

"These bolts are similar to what one could buy in any hardware store?" I asked.

"However, we want really nice bolts and we want magic in them." Mr. Guna answered.

There was no talk of anything so gauche as paying me for the bolts. However, they casually went through the process of how to imbue each bolt with magic. It changed the way I imbue magic. It was much faster, more efficient and effective then what I'd been doing. Obvious once they showed me, but something I would likely never have run across on my own. It's no exaggeration to say I would have paid millions for that lesson. They politely asked me to deliver 500 bolts in six months and showed me out.

I went home. Spent a five-digit number on top of the line tooling and supplies and after a few weeks of getting set up, ran off a batch of 500 bolts. The worst were substantially better than what one would buy at the local hardware store. Better really, than the finest boutique bolts one might order for money. But as I reviewed the bolts in quality control, I noticed variation. The worst bolts might still be great but were clearly not as great as the best. So, I ran another batch. I kept the best half of both batches. A substantial improvement, but they still could be better.

It was at that moment I realized, this could very well be a test. How good a job could I do? How hard would I work? I suspected that I was auditioning to be their iron Jed. I was very okay with that.

Svartalves are fairies and they don't like iron. Some work on some jobs would be iron. Just as I had Jed to work on my truck, they would probably love to farm that iron work out to their iron Jed. I would _love_ to be their iron Jed.

That meant these would have to be the finest bolts ever created by man. If I impressed them, it could mean everything I had wanted, the friendly support of a major magic power, tutelage, some measure of safety. So, the bolts were important with a capital "I." I had to deliver in less than a month. The last batch I ran the previous week had only contributed three bolts. This one might be less, but every bolt contributed to overall quality. I had trays for the bolts that would shame a fine jeweler and a nice case for the trays.

I had wanted to obsess and compulse over making the bolts, but I realized that the more tired, hungry and strung out I got, the more mistakes I made. I had to husband my main resource, myself. There were only so many more batches I could make. The last thing I needed right now was a distraction. Playing with Jake had already meant losing one batch.

I got the building drawings and printed them on my large format HP printer, then took them to the main house where it was already after ten and the girls were asleep. Miranda had brought me dinner in the bolt shop.

I laid out the map of the building on my billiard's table then pulled up the first report from Dark Glass. Six armed guards, armed with pistols and MPKs. Good. No obvious exterior booby traps. Surveillance continued.

I called Jake, "Don't stay out late. I'm picking you up at six."

*** And now a word from our sponsor! ***

Please don't miss that this is the first exciting book in a series. This book is followed by Warlock of Omaha Squared and Warlock of Omaha Cubed, both also on this site!

If you enjoy Star Wars and my writing, you may also enjoy a series of three Star Wars novels I have written, all called Legend of the Harp!

This writer, like the story teller in the market of old, now has a hat out hoping for a small gratuity. There is no obligation and I'm grateful you took a moment to read. However, if my writing has found favor in your eyes, please take a moment to go to:

Pay

Pal

.me

/hemaccabe

and throw in a little something, a dime, a quarter, a dollar, etc.

While I love to write, I do have a spouse and a child and a job and many other claims on my time that don't understand why I would spend so many hours banging on a keyboard. A small tangible return would help smooth the way to allow me to provide many more stories.

Please help. Thank-you.


	5. Chapter 5

Warlock of Omaha

Chapter 5: Rolling on the River

I woke up early, got showered and dressed. When I came down, Miranda had breakfast ready for me. I don't know how she did it, I was way earlier than normal, but I was hungry and grateful and told her so. She was clearly proud of herself for figuring it out.

I took the truck to Jake's hotel. I called him just before I got there, and he was waiting for me outside. Jake was wearing a new Red Sox hoodie, jeans and cheap high-top sneakers. They looked like the best Target could provide and I was happy he had availed himself. Jake also was carrying a baseball bat. Well good for him. I was dressed in the same way I'd been the day before.

I parked next to the rental minivan and jumped out.

"Open up, I want to see the med kit." I said.

Jake took the key fob out and opened the rear hatch. I went and looked. He had everything I had asked for and more including some gloves and masks.

"Looks good. Help me get the bench out." I said opening the side door.

We wrestled the middle bench out and figured out how to fold the rear bench into the floor. I didn't say anything, but I figured between Jake, his girl and me, the odds of someone needing to be carried out would be high.

"Let's get going." I said, and we hopped in the truck.

I ran Jake through a nearby Mexican fast food place I knew had huge breakfast burritos. Jake got two and a huge soda. It was all gone by the time we got on the highway.

I drove across town on I-80, just beating the morning rush commute, to a river landing in Council Bluffs.

Jim was waiting, sitting on a concrete dock wall, his boat already in the water tied up.

I walked up to Jim and said, "We have to talk."

Jim looked at me quizzically, and then gave Jake and his bat a confused once over.

"I need a ride on the river today, but it doesn't have to be you." I said.

"Why not me?" He asked amused.

"I'm dealing with some bad business. It could go wrong, and you could end up in a bad place." I answered.

"Well, if I get arrested, I'll send you my legal bill." He replied smiling.

"It's not that kind of trouble." I answered. "If this goes wrong, well, it would be bad for us and then they might decide they have to be bad to you too."

"Does this have something to do with drugs?" Jim asked suspiciously looking at Jake.

"No. No drugs." I said.

"Then what is it about?" Jim asked.

A simple question really, but with a really complicated answer. He deserved an answer since I was asking him to put his ass on the line for it.

"There's a girl in trouble. Bad people have her. If we don't spring her, it could be really bad." I answered.

"You can't call the Police?" He asked.

"Nope. Lots of dead cops and a dead girl. We probably can't do it, but at least not lots of dead cops."

That made Jim lean back. I could tell he was thinking. Then he chose to believe me. I appreciated that.

"Then I'm in." He said matter-of-factly.

We got in Jim's boat. Jim's an older gentleman, probably seven feet tall and carrying a lot of extra weight. He doesn't move too easy but managed to scramble onto the boat. Jake hopped in like he was made to hop. I did it without much trouble despite carrying a lot of extra weight.

I said before that a really powerful mage can put up a shield that will bounce bullets. I have some nifty tricks that help, illusions that will make me look like I'm standing next to myself among others, but the mundane world has an answer for that as well, it's called armor.

The modern armor world is another one of those vast spheres of human endeavor. One could spend every waking minute focused on armor and just scratch the surface. The basics for me though seem that there are two competing technologies for personal armor, CFRTPCs and ceramic. CFRTPCs are the modern high-tech descendants of things like Kevlar. Generally exotic high-performance fibers backing up super strong plastics. Most notably they have recently been chosen by the US military for the next generation combat helmet, or ECH. Not everyone can buy such a helmet, I got access through a client and bought something similar.

The military used a steel pot style helmet from World War II to Viet Nam. After that, they decided to put some brain power into designing a better helmet. The military tested a lot of different designs and materials and learned that the German style, or Fritz helmet, with it's ear and back of the neck protection was actually better. Then after spending a fortune on the research and deploying larger, better protecting Fritz-style helmets, went on to the next generation ACH helmet which has the same coverage as the steel pot again but has some Fritz-helmet styling. I weep for our soldiers.

The new ECH that is replacing the ACH is generally the same shape, just made of sterner, lighter stuff. Luckily, the manufacturer has produced a variety of styles including one very similar the US military's Fritz helmet. I got that one. They also make the helmet with a variety of exterior electronic hard points. Head protection and ability to detect are two very key self-defense capabilities, so I didn't feel ashamed spending a lot of time on the helmet.

The military and their contractor have come up with something pretty amazing in the shell of the ECH. It's incredibly strong and expected the be able to shrug off rifle hits which is amazing. In great contrast, the padding underneath is child-like in it's design. 

The NFL and it's helmet designers have learned a great deal in the last twenty years about making helmets that protect the heads inside from shocks and concussions. You can be sure I used all of it in my helmet.

A ridiculously large percentage of injuries suffered by US servicemen in our recent adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan were caused by explosions, like the ones caused by IEDs. One of the most common types of injury caused by explosion was trauma to the neck. With it's complete lack of neck protection, you'd never know that by looking at the ECH. The motorcycle racing world, on the other hand, has learned a huge amount in the last twenty years about protecting the neck and upper spine, I use all of it.

Anyone who saw "Black Hawk Down" will be familiar with the predicament of the young Army Ranger who loses his hearing. Anyone whose familiar with responsible shooting in the civilian world knows one must protect one's hearing when shooting or near large sounds like jet engines and explosions. Luckily, there are electronic earmuffs available that will stop any large noise and can actually improve your hearing. Why every soldier doesn't have that sort of protection? I have no idea. I have that sort of hearing protection built into my helmet.

I've actually taken the hearing protection a step farther. There's a system available, it's centerpiece is a cute little stand with three mics pointing different ways. The system will locate a sniper based on a single shot. Considering the huge number of US soldiers being killed by enemy snipers, you'd think the system would be well deployed. I have found no evidence of that. The system is expensive, but it's basics could be run by an IPhone and a $10 array of mics. I have a ring of mics on my helmet that give me literally superhuman hearing, are linked into a heads-up display, and can help me locate any noise while they do the basic job of protecting my hearing.

CFRTPC's competition are highly resilient ceramics. The US military's body armor and most vehicle armor is based on ceramic technology. I've tested a variety of the best ceramic armors. The best, in my humble but extremely well-educated opinion is from a west coast company who shall remain nameless but is quite famous and unloved by the US military. Most of my other gear has built in armor of the ceramic variety which they supply. The west coast ceramic armor people produce a great chest piece, mine is custom, which is the basis of my vest.

They also produce ceramic "scales" like fish scales which allows their armor to be remarkably flexible. My long coat uses a variety of plates and scales to maximize protection and flexibility.

My shoes have ceramic armor shanks and if you think I've already bored you, you have no idea how long I could describe how the toe armor in the shoes works.

All that said, I end up being a bit steam punk in appearance when I go out, which draws a few looks, but we live in an era when dress style is not terribly universal and tech guys are expected to be a bit eccentric. My long coat is based on a Victorian British gentleman's coat, similar to a duster. It looks like it's made of black, close cropped suede. I managed to include a small percentage of dark forest green metallic fibers, giving it just a hint of green. One will find that I'm quite fond of dark forest green metallic. I was able to include the green fibers because the coat's material is actually a synthetic which is fire resistant, cut resistant, very resilient and machine wash warm. My vest has a variety of cloth shells, but something green or blue paisley silk will generally be hiding the armor plate.

However, I could hardly wander around with a big military helmet on my head. I actually had the helmet, but couldn't figure out how to work it in. I have a second tier of armor which currently includes gauntlets and leg armor and the helmet lived, uncomfortably, with them while I tended to go out bare headed, in a baseball cap, or the Stetson hat when I wanted to look cool. My Stetson hat is a black, high beaver count, wide brimmed, round centered hat. It's about the size of a large Fedora, but the shape of a stove pipe cowboy hat. In the description, Stetson describes my hat as the type favored by gunfighters, card sharps and other near do wells which just makes me like it more.

When I was at the Bright Future Society meet in Chicago, someone was showing ways to make one piece of clothing look like another. Mostly it was for innocent fashion, how to switch quickly from casual afternoon to smart and fashionable for the evening. I used it to make my helmet look like my Stetson.

I tend to wear custom made black fatigue pants, with dark forest green metallic thread stitching, and high-performance green/grey suede boots.

The look was too distinctive for the boat. I didn't want the bad guys looking at me while I was looking at them. So, with just a bit of twiddling, my helmet became an old fishing hat and my vest an old fishing vest. Just some yoyos out on the river fishing on an early summer day.

We rolled up and down the river including a few sweeps behind the warehouse in question. The Fomor would believe their strength was water. People generally like to avoid water and would prefer to attack from land for many obvious reasons, not the least of which would be a desire NOT to tangle with the Fomor on the water.

As we passed the warehouse, I took the time to give the landing and the water a long hard look with my magical sight. The landing looked like it had no special protection but beneath the surface, hidden by the muddy Missouri river water was something that looked like a cross between a jelly fish and squid with lots of long tentacles and a body about the size of a bull. I couldn't see any specifics, magical sight doesn't work that way, at least not mine. The important thing is I could see was where it kept it's life.

Every creature, including people, keeps their life somewhere. I suspect it varied more in the old days. Now most people keep it in their head, which is why head injuries are so deadly. I have seen men and women, generally fat, who keep it in their stomach. I've seen a few women with it in their chest and more men who keep it in their groin. But mostly, the head.

I'm sure you've heard of or seen people who take massive multiple wounds and then survive and even recover. While others seem to take just one simple, small hole and die instantly. The reason is that a hit to the spot where the life is kept is very lethal, others, very survivable. I knew where the creature's life was.

I had Jim take us back to the landing.

We got off the boat and helped Jim pull it out of the water, clean it and tie it down to the trailer for the drive home.

Then I drove Jake and myself back into town. I stopped at a phone store and made sure Jake had an earpiece that worked well. Blue tooth earpieces are terrible for serious espionage and military applications, but they're cheap and easy to set up and can be very anonymous. Further, I didn't think these guys would have the kind of scanning tech that could pick it up or block it.

I dropped Jake back at his hotel. "We have a dinner appointment tonight at six. See you then."

Jake nodded as I drove off.

It was close to eleven AM when I got back home. I started work on the bolts. Found fried chicken and mashed potatoes in a pan in the fridge and put them in the oven as I showered and cleaned up from the morning activities. I ate the chicken and worked on the bolts through the afternoon. I left a message for Miranda that I would be out for dinner. I also called Jim and made sure he would be ready at 2am Friday morning.

As it got towards 5:30pm, I changed into my outside clothes, made sure my hat was back to Stetson and my vest back to normal.

I drove over to Jake's hotel. It took a while to get there. The evening traffic on Dodge is slow by Omaha standards, but I finally got there, and he was waiting outside for me, this time in a Patriot's hoodie.

We drove the short distance from his hotel to Jericho's. Jericho's is one of the few good steak places in Omaha. You'd think Omaha, practically the center of America's beef industry, would be full of great steak places and you'd be wrong. There are a handful of fancy overpriced places that produce a decent steak. There are a group of well-known places that are terrible despite reputations to the contrary and then a handful of good spots, like Jericho's. Jericho's has a full menu, but really, you go for the prime rib.

We got a table without issue, it being early and a weeknight in Omaha. I ordered us a couple of king cuts and some soft drinks. I had two agendas for the evening, one to discuss progress with Jake, the other to see how much he could eat.

"Well, do you have any questions?" I asked.

"Finally," he asked with obviously pent up frustration, "when are we going? I mean all the eating and shopping is fun, but I figured we'd be kicking in the door already?"

I had kind of anticipated what he might ask, so I had prepared an answer.

"I am building intelligence, as you may have noticed with our little scouting cruise this morning. I'm also assembling a plan. People who kick in doors blind tend to get shot in the balls. I like my balls where they are. However, if you don't wish to wait, I believe your bike now has a full tank of gas, good luck. If there's a faster, better alternative you're welcome to take it. Lord knows this is not my primary area of expertise, I'd be happy to turn over what I know to someone more skilled at this sort of thing and be done with it."

Perhaps sensing that I was edgy about the whole business, Jake assumed a more placating tone, "I know, I know. I'm just crazy worried. I really love her, and they must be torturing her or worse. I keep thinking 'I'll just go there myself and kick their asses!' but I know I'll just get my own ass shot off. I don't know how many guys they got in there, but I know it's more than one and they're armed and they're pros and they probably have magic death beams or something. If it was one guy in an alley, I'd be ready, but kicking that door in is just death and that's the last hope she's got."

I sat back. The steaks chose that moment to arrive and we set to.

After we'd eaten for a bit. I'm very picky about getting my baked potato just so. I finally looked up at Jake. He was just finishing everything on his plate. I didn't even ask, I just waved at the waitress for another plate.

"That's good meat." Jake said.

"Try and chew and enjoy it, it's even better that way." I said smiling.

As his second plate landed and I was chewing slowly, I said, "I can't say anything for certain yet but, I'm thinking Sunday. It gets really quiet on the river then. But it depends what the intelligence keeps turning up. We'll see. In the meantime, I need you to keep well fed, well rested and prepared. You get all frustrated, punch a hole in a wall, or a person, or get blotto and end up in a drunk tank, maybe decked a cop on the way there. You're on your own. I'm not going by myself. I told you before, on the magic side of the tracks, there are a LOT of fates worse than death and first on the list is some buggity boo dragging you back to who knows where. Nobody will care enough about her to look, much less go toe to toe with the Fomor to get her back. We get one shot at this. I'm not Superman. Victory is not assured. My ass is going way out on a limb for you and I don't even really know you. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

We both leaned back in our chairs, arms crossed over our chests. I think my soliloquy had ruined our appetites.

So, I ordered pie. Their pie is really good too and we both ate in silence.

Yes. I lied. I trusted Jake, but I also knew he might get played. If we went tomorrow night, and we survived, well, he'd forgive me. If he ended up getting played by the Fomor and letting them think it would be a few days later and in doing so, played them. So much the better.

I let Jake walk the short distance back to his hotel and drove home. I laid out my gear on a shop table and reviewed it. Seeing if anything was enough out of sorts to need overnight love. Everything was okay, I keep a tight ship. Then I went to bed.

I spent the next day reviewing everything I knew and every piece of gear I would take. I unloaded the magazines, checked each one for wear and then disassembled them, cleaned them, reassembled and checked them again. Then checked each cartridge. Four magazines of 10mm on the belt and one in the gun, one round in the pipe. 76 rounds. Four mags of .50 Beowulf, one in the gun and one round in the pipe. 71 rounds. All stage 3

Every battery that could be charged was plugged in to charge. Every battery that could be replaced, was replaced.

Every piece of armor including leggings and gauntlets were reviewed. My gauntlets are based on some cool paintball gloves I had as a kid. The paintball gloves had leather palms, padded backs and hard plastic clamshells on the back over the padding. The paintball gloves were made of cheap leather, cheap sponge and cheap plastic. Mine were made of fire resistant, cut resistant synthetic, much fancier padding and ceramic backs that covered the back of the hand and all but the last knuckle. They would also make excellent brass knuckles. The finger tips are left bare, a risk perhaps, but I want the manual dexterity and sense of touch if something needs to be done on short notice that I just can't ever seem to get from gloves.

The leggings were based at first on baseball catcher's leggings. A surprisingly practical and well thought out arrangement. Of course, mine had been made from materials like those in my gauntlets and unlike the square indentations of the baseball armor, mine were shaped to shed blows, not catch balls.

Every bit of armor was scrubbed, inspected, and any bit of wear was summarily repaired. Everything was tested and inspected again. I had a plan. I went over it again and again. I knew how many races and fights had been lost over the years because some simple, stupid, obvious detail had been overlooked.

I reviewed the reports from the Dark Glass guys. I contacted them and told them to clear out at midnight and send me a final report. I was consistently getting six guys. The back of my head kept pointing out, "More than the mobsters, probably tougher too." I didn't have a good answer.

I called Jim again, he'd be waiting at two.

The back of my head was also whispering things like, "Do you have ANY idea what you're doing?"

To which I could only answer, "It's a calculated risk." I knew some part of it was bravado. I wanted to test my training and toys, see if I was, maybe, really a badass.

Even if I won big, would the risk be worth Jake and Cassie's friendship?

What happened if the Fomor took this the wrong way? It would be nice if they would feel all intimidated and decide to leave Omaha alone. Much more likely they would send a squad of real badasses to put paid to me.

I'd had similar doubts after Forest Man. What if he was coming to talk nice? The truth is, his behavior had been considered, intelligent and hostile. I'd done the smart thing putting three rounds into him.

In the end the Fomor were actively hunting me. There were lots of bad actors in the supernatural community, but none of them, at least that I knew of, had decided to go after the small potatoes of the magical community so aggressively and systematically. I had some suspicions as to what they were up to with those victims they already had, and it wasn't good. I'd love to hope that some grand crusade of supernatural superpowers would vanquish the Fomor back into the oceans and off my back, but I wasn't betting on it. That meant the Fomor could only be pushed back in an endless collection of little skirmishes as people, like me, decided they'd been pushed as far as they could be pushed and fought back.

"But it doesn't have to be you who fights those skirmishes. You don't have to die first." The back of my head said.

The hell I didn't. I didn't want to be the supernatural sheriff of Omaha but who else was there? Do I fight now, when they're small and few or wait till they're many and dug in? Do I fight now when it's a time and place of my choosing or when they have the choice?

"You could run?" The voice whispers. But the answer is where? To someplace even more remote, try to lose myself in some little town or Unabomber style in the woods? If they track me there, I'd be even more vulnerable.

There comes a time when you have no choice but to say, "Maybe you'll kill me, but I'm gonna take a few of you motherfuckers with me."

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	6. Chapter 6

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 6: In the Air Tonight

I finished getting ready. Then I went and took a shower and called Miranda. She joined me for a nap. Bullfighters say it clears the vision. I say it helps me fall asleep.

I woke up at one and called Jake, "Get ready, I'll be there in a few minutes."

Miranda helped me get dressed. I could do it all myself but getting dressed in a suit of armor is still a lot easier with help.

I went and got the Infiniti and drove over to the Jake's hotel.

Jake was waiting outside next to the minivan, wearing a similar outfit to the one he had before, grey hoodie, black jeans, aluminum bat.

I got out and went to the minivan. I had prepared a pot of mud and a spackling trowel. With a bit of artistry, the license plates became difficult to read, but not completely obscured. Enough mud was on the bumpers to make it look like it had happened by driving on a wet dirt road, not by hand.

I said, "You'll drive the minivan. Follow me. There's a service station across from the warehouse. I'll signal left to make sure you know it's the place. I want you to go in there, park, nose out, in the spot closest to the warehouse. If you're having trouble backing in, just pick the next best spot. Do it quick. I'll be coming back around to get you and I don't want to come to a complete stop. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, does this mean we're going in now?" He replied, eager.

"Not sure yet. Depends what I see down there. This may just be a dry run." I lied blithely.

"Uh, okay." He answered looking confused.

"Saddle up. We have a schedule to keep." I answered trying to sound like I knew what I was doing.

I got back into the Infiniti and pulled out. Jake followed me in the minivan. Omaha's normally tame traffic was practically comatose this late on a weekday night, so we made good time. I had a plan which I was reviewing in my head over and over as we drove. The first step was we needed to position the escape vehicle.

The service station across from the warehouse was closed and as I signaled, Jake pulled in and began to park. I drove a block up, did an illegal U-turn and came back around. I had meant to stop, but Jake had done well and managed to jump in my passenger seat while I was still moving.

I drove to the same landing in Council Bluffs we had used before, arriving a few minutes before two.

Jim was already there, his boat in the water. We boarded and began to move upriver.

To Jim I said, "Once we get off the boat, turn around and go home. Get in a good spot with your shotgun and keep 911 on speed dial."

Jim nodded, his face hard and determined.

I turned and looked at Jake, "I want you to follow me. Stay close. Your job is to keep them off my back. If you see something and you think you should tell me, speak low but clear on the earphone. Don't be cryptic. Can you do that?"

Jake nodded, I think trying to look like Jim, but you could see the scared.

Then Jake asked, "Are we going to get her out?"

I answered honestly, "There are a lot of possible outcomes, my guess is that there's better than a fifty percent chance we both die or worse."

"Those aren't good odds." Jake said.

"It's the best I could do on short notice. You're always welcome to fire me." I answered.

He nodded again.

When we were well away, I looked at Jake and said, "Pee in the river." As I got up to the side and started working my fly, harder than it sounds in armor.

"Uh why?" Jake asked.

I answered. "When you get scared, the first thing that happens is that you'll want to pee. If you do it now, it'll be easier. The less time you're thinking about how bad you need to pee and the more you're thinking about what you should be, the better."

He nodded in matter of fact agreement and pee'd.

As we got to the spot I wanted, I brought out my rifle, which I think surprised Jim and Jake. I started to give Jim specific directions and eventually I saw the big octopus/jellyfish rise up and start moving toward us. When it got close, I put the first shot into the center of it's life.

Shooting through water, especially a flowing, eddying river current is problematic. But I was shooting a powerful round at point blank range. I hit just off center and that was it for Octopussy. I put two more rounds into it for good measure and could really see the life drain out of it. Remember my rifle is suppressed, most of the noise it will make is about fifty yards downrange, as the bullet crosses the sound barrier, and I had fired at point blank range into water, so it made very little noise.

I swapped magazines and had Jim bring us a bit closer to shore. I pulled out two gummy chews and gave one to Jake.

"Eat this and follow me." I said.

Jake and I ate and then I jumped twenty yards from boat to landing. Jake was right behind me. Flying magic is tricky and magic expensive. But a single big bounce, not so hard. I barely kept my feet, Jake looked like he could have done it without the gummy. Jerk.

I didn't look, but I knew Jim was turning out to river to turn around.

I had a plan. The Dark Glass guys had been surveilling for a while and had kept a guy hidden in the brush across the river with powerful scopes to watch what the water side defenses looked like. I had a feeling about these Fomor. They would think water was their ally. They'd think anyone who knew anything would come at them from the land side rather than challenge them on water. Anyone who didn't know, should have been eaten by Octopussy. By rights, it should have been able to swim up, undetected, then kill and eat everyone on the boat. My magic sight is rare, as I understand it, even in the magic community. That meant that if one could bypass the critter, the Fomor's back was almost undefended. Almost.

The Missouri river runs generally south and east. It comprises the eastern border of Nebraska and Omaha sits hard on that east border at the confluence of the Missouri and Platt rivers. However, rivers eddy and curve along their length and at this point the Missouri was flowing east to west. That meant the warehouse's south side faced the river. There was a deserted landing that would normally be used to transfer cargo from the warehouse to a barge.

I'd love to say I did this next thing on purpose. I'm not some sort of "Mission Impossible" guy. I had tried to set it up this way though, and the timing had worked out perfect, probably impressing Jake.

A Fomor guard walked around the building. Except he wasn't a Fomor. He was a Man in Black. The briefings at the Bright Future Society had said the Fomor grunts dressed like Steve Jobs clones. The guy who came around the building was wearing a sixties-era black suit. I knew that every couple hours, one guard would do a sweep around the building and come from the east side to south, where we and the docks were. The Fomor was clearly surprised. I put a bullet in his face.

I swear I saw a hole in his face just right of his nose, below his left eye. Then the back of his head vaporized, and the front blew apart in chunks. The headless body armed with it's small machine gun dropped to the ground very defunct.

Once again, the bullet had been nearly silent, stopped from passing supersonic by my target's head.

Jake moved as if to grab the gun, I put my arm across him. "Leave it, you don't know what these slimy bastards have done to it. Don't touch anything in this place you don't have to"

I was a little shaken and more than a little scared. I had tried to prep and plan for this evening as much as I could. Somehow, a detail as basic as how the grunts were dressed had been missed. Further, these weren't just Fomor, they were the stuff of my personal nightmares.

On the other hand, I wasn't the couple in Vegas. Even if I died right now, I'd taken one of the bastards with me. Somehow, that really changed how I felt. I wasn't so much scared, but angry. I still had to pee though.

I walked up to the dockside door of the old industrial river-side warehouse, a simple security door. I used my axe to pull it open. They hadn't even bothered to lock it. I entered at the southwest corner of the building.

I had a lot of scans of this place. It's possible they had some booby traps, but I didn't think so. This was a quick and dirty base. In and out. Booby traps take time, logistics and resources, which I knew well from building my place. If this became a permanent base, if they invested in it, maybe then, but nothing was likely right now. But my guard was up as I entered the enemy's lair.

The building's interior layout was essentially an open middle with a central blockhouse/office in the middle. Catwalks running around the North, East and West side. Ground level on the same sides was semi-enclosed around the perimeter. The interior was lit by old florescent fixtures, gloomy, but workable. The place was run down and dirty. There were lots of footprints in the dusty floor. I immediately picked up a guy facing away from me straight in front of me and one on the second level almost directly to my right.

I shot the one in front of me in the back of the head. He did as well as his buddy. The second shot had been more than fifty yards. It wasn't the loudest crack, but it was definitely a gunshot. I turned and shot the one on the gangplank. He'd just started looking in the wrong spot for the shooter when I sent him to Fomor Valhalla. Three down. Three to go.

I had one edge. I'm sure the mothers of thousands of dead US soldiers were glad to have sacrificed their son's lives for some bullshit gun control laws, but it gave me an advantage now. Normally, a gun goes pop where it gets fired. If you hear a bang, you look where you heard the bang. But because my rifle was so well suppressed, when it went bang, the sound came from roughly fifty feet away. That meant the bad guys were looking for me in the wrong places. They were moving though.

I started moving forward. There was a stairway near where I shot the first guy in the northwest corner, a guy came down that stairway looking east, his bullet got him in the right side of his head.

I got to the middle of the west side of the building and set up at a support pillar I knew would be there. The last two bad guys were in the north east corner, one on each level, both locked and aiming hard at where they'd heard the shots, the north west corner.

I shot the one at ground level. His buddy above tried to look below, where the sound of the shot seemed to come from and was moving toward the stairs in the north east corner when he got it in the side of the head.

Six up. Six down. My guess was that Cassie was in the bunkhouse. If there were any traps and final defenses they'd be there.

I swapped mags again.

As we moved across the open space, we got very close to the bunk house, "We've almost done it!" I was thinking exultantly when a string of shots rang out.

In a split second, I realized the bullets had gone straight through where I appeared to be, having set up the illusion that I was standing a foot to my right. Jake, who had been following me just behind and to the right ate a bunch of them and went down to the floor instantly. With the speed of many hours of three gun practice I spotted the last guy and shot him in the face.

Son of a bitch!

I dropped my rifle and let the sling hold it while I grabbed Jake's hoodie by the shoulders and dragged him up to the wall of the blockhouse. They had seven guys. Made sense. The last guy was probably hidden, maybe with magic, maybe just in a good spot, waiting for someone to make a move toward the blockhouse. Very well thought out ambush.

I scanned the rest of the place as best I could, it was quiet. I looked at Jake, it was hard to tell with his baggy clothes how bad it was. We had come here to do a job, so I decided to complete it.

We were on the south side of the blockhouse, where the door was. I picked up my rifle and used my big boot to kick the door in.

I'm not sure what I expected, some Ctulhu-esque Fomorian horror? Bullets? Images of torture?

Instead there was an attractive woman standing in the middle of the room.

She had long, curly, light brown hair. Her face had a pleasant roundness, with red lips and cheeks. On those dreamy cheeks was a faint glow of rouge, not makeup, but what makeup wished it could emulate. She wore a crown of wildflowers and all she was wearing otherwise was light thin garlands of flowers. She was a healthy young woman, perhaps five six? She was not supermodel attractive. She would not have been selected by Victoria's Secret or Sports Illustrated. However, some women have a raw sexuality that is hard to define. She had it. In spades.

I looked at her and said, "Cassie I presume?"

"I'm so glad you came Jack. I was wondering how long you would take before you took my invitation." She said. Her voice sounded nice.

"Invitation? What are you talking about?" I answered, confused.

"I found Jake because I knew you wouldn't just come to call. I knew I had to intrigue you." She answered and the way she said "intrigue" made my hips want to twitch.

"So, nothing between the two of you was real, you just used him to get to me?" I asked.

"I'm sure Jake's feelings were real, they had to be, or you wouldn't have come." She answered then continued.

"Such a lovely little provincial town you've chosen to build your castle in…" She started to talk. It was hard to follow, I was paying way too much attention to the way her body shifted weight, exactly which strategic bit of anatomy might be exposed by swaying garlands, etc. Her stuff shouldn't work on me, but I could feel it moving through me, drawing me in. I couldn't stop staring. Most men are sex-insecure. They don't know where their next opportunity is going to come from, but I'd had two to four attractive women around the house ready to go on a moment's notice for years. On top of that, a fair amount of promiscuous action on the side. Further, I now knew my way around a seeming. I had defenses in place. Her stuff shouldn't be working. Then, as I fought it, I realized that it was working because I wanted it to work. When you're very sex insecure, as I had been before I'd figured out seemings, and even more so when I'd been a teenager, women can be so exotic and alluring. The life I'd been living would probably seem like I was living the dream. Except, now it took so much more to rev my engines. When you can't have ice cream, then it's all you want and every little taste you get seems like magic. When the ice cream is lying around all over the place, it's not special anymore. She was offering me the forbidden fruit, a promise of something so much more. Like offering the junky the chance to try their drug again for the first time. When I realized what she was doing I finally came back to myself in time to hear her say, "So you know you can't hurt me, or poor Jake will be heartbroken and all this for naught. He'll never forgive you, but if you come with me, I can promise you an exalted place at my side."

Should have sealed the deal, but I was back in charge of myself, so I snapped my rifle up, the muzzle had drifted down to the floor, and put a round through her face.

It's hard to explain what happened next. One second, I was talking to a living breathing woman who was very alive and hyper-present and the next it was a mannequin with a big whole in it's face. The thing was made from pale mud, mixed with leaves and twigs and hollow inside. I just knew it would be the stuff of future nightmares.

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	7. Chapter 7

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 7 Denoun

I left the bunkhouse, kept my rifle up and scanned the interior of the warehouse. I was wary of another ambush. But my wariness was the stuff of closing barn doors after the horse has already run off. I dropped the rifle to hang on my stomach by it's strap and grabbed Jake by the shoulders of his hoodie. He was two hundred pounds plus of solid weight and giving me no help as he moaned and bubbled quietly. I didn't think I could clean and jerk him over a shoulder, so I dragged him.

I got a look at a couple of the MiBs I had shot earlier on the way to the front door. They were people, but had apparently been completely encased in pale mud plaster mixed with leaves and twigs. The exterior appearance the guards had before they were shot bore no resemblance to the people who had been inside the plaster. No doubt they had a big bucket of leafy twiggy pale mud plaster back at Evil Monster HQ just waiting for me. "Lovely," I thought, as I grunted and heaved, dragging Jake's huge body out.

The front door of the warehouse opened easily from the inside. I dragged Jake out, then looked both ways. It was all deserted, still being Oh dark thirty in the middle of nowhere Carter Lake on a school night. I got Jake across the road to the minivan and opened the side door. It was a real pain heaving him up to the floor of the minivan.

"Why couldn't I have kept one more gummy for this!" I thought to myself as I strained to move Jake smoothly into the minivan's nice empty cargo compartment. Jake's groans showed I was clearly only partially succeeding. Then it was an even more awkward pain shoving him in. Once I had the torso in, it wasn't too bad. I got in the driver's seat and called Miranda.

Miranda answered, "Oh hi." Her voice so cute and muzzy with sleep.

I felt bad to worry her, but I needed what I was about to ask for.

"Miranda, I need you to check with the other girls, see if anyone knows anyone with emergency medical experience."

"Oh! Are you all right?" She asked worried.

"Yes, I'm fine. Jake's been hurt and he can't go to an ER. Talk to the other girls and call me right back." I answered.

"Okay will do." She answered and got off the phone.

Less than ten minutes later Miranda called me back.

"The best we can come up with is my friend Kelly in the culinary program. She was an ER nurse for a few years before she decided to go back to school."

"That sounds great." I answered as she gave me Kelly's phone number.

I dialed Kelly's number a few times before she answered, obviously tired and a bit frustrated, "Who is this?"

"Hi, I'm a friend of Miranda's, she recommended I call you." I answered.

"What is this about?" She asked still a bit muzzy and confused.

I continued, "I have a special scholarship offer for you that can't wait. I suspect that you have substantial student loans from your current program, and perhaps from your previous education. I suspect that you also have substantial tuition and fees still to absorb before you complete your current program."

"Well, yeah." She answered.

"I would be happy to clear all of those loans and see all future charges paid."

"What? Really?" She answered no longer muzzy. Clearly, I now had her attention.

"There is a special application process for this scholarship that might be somewhat ethically challenging. I will be at," I gave her the hotel and room number, "in a few minutes with a man badly wounded from a number of gunshots. He can't go to a hospital. I have a substantial first-aid kit. However, any other gear necessary you will have to bring. Any that can be purchased, I will be happy to reimburse you for. However, considering the urgency and time of night, you may have to use some ingenuity. The scholarship offer is contingent on my friend getting good care quickly, not on his survival, though if he survives there could be a substantial bonus. Is this offer acceptable to you?"

"Um, yeah." She said. "I'll need to do some things. I'll be there in about an hour."

I was hoping what she needed to do was not call the police, but sometimes risk must be accepted.

We got to the hotel. Luckily, Jake had a ground floor room as the hotel had no elevator. I parked illegally near the back door, got a luggage cart and used it to drag Jake to his room. It was another ordeal getting him off the luggage cart and onto the bed. Once I had him on the bed, I made him as comfortable as I could. I then took the luggage rack back and got the med kit, it was big. I took that moment to take off my gauntlets, leg armor and rifle and leave them in the van. I also picked up a big stack of towels and sheets from the utility room.

A little while later there was a knock on the door. I let in a late twenty something woman with dirty blond hair wearing scrubs.

"Kelly, I hope?" I asked.

"Yes, it's me." She answered with the same voice as the phone.

She had a large knapsack on her shoulder.

I showed her to Jake and the first aid kit I had and she set to. I helped in minor ways as she worked. She cut his clothes off. He had managed to accumulate six separate bullet holes in his right leg and gut. Kelly prioritized, dug out slugs and sowed things up. She also got IV s into him.

I collected up Jake's ruined clothes as well as the many towels and sheets we had hopelessly soiled.

When she was done, Kelly looked at me and said, "I'm not a trauma surgeon, this isn't an operating suite and we're not in an intensive care department. He could have internal bleeding and infections. He could still die very easily. Also, I may get in trouble for taking this gear from Presbyterian."

I looked at her and said, "I believe you have fulfilled the basic terms of the scholarship. If there's a problem with Presbyterian, you have my cell phone number, please call, I'll intervene."

It had been several hours, and she looked at me and said, "I have some things I need to look after, but I'll keep coming back and looking after him."

"I would very much appreciate that." I answered.

I stayed with Jake. He didn't wake up until Monday morning. Miranda brought Kelly and me food. Kelly wasn't there every minute, but she was there a lot. Later I would find out Kelly had a son named Michael and was a single mother, so her absences more than made sense.

Once Jake woke up, it was clear that the danger was past. Kelly and I kept visiting him but by the following Thursday he was up and about and able to look after himself.

As soon as he woke up and was self-aware, I made a point of sitting next to Jake to talk.

"I would expect you have questions about what happened?" I began.

"Well, yeah, a lot. What happened to Cassie?" Jake asked.

"I have bad news about that." I answered.

"No, it's not possible! We we're supposed to save her!" Jake was starting to lose it.

"It's actually worse than that. Cassie was one of them. She was using you to lure me in." I said.

"That's a load of bullshit! I knew Cassie! That's not possible!" Jake started shouting.

I then pulled out my cell phone and played back our whole conversation. Even through the phone's tinny speakers her voice was seductive. It was the first time I had listened the whole way through. I had been distracted when she said it the first time.

When the recording was over, Jake had tears in his eyes.

"That Bitch!"

I think Jake would have rather been shot again.

Kelly had a Bachelor's in Nursing that had been paid in student loans and was two years into the culinary program also all on student loans. I cleared the loans and paid all her tuition and fees for the final year. I determined that Kelly and Michael were living in a not very nice apartment in a bad school district and were two months behind on rent. I paid the rent and had them moved to a nice apartment near her school. I paid moving costs, lease signing expenses and the first year of rent. Kelly was driving a very beat up old Toyota Corolla that was upside down. I took her to the Subaru dealership, traded the Toyota for a new Forrester, paid cash, and had them register the car in her name. In Nebraska, car registration and sales tax are expensive, so I covered those as well. I contacted her insurance agent, upgraded the insurance and paid it a year in advance. Then had the agent send future bills to me. I got a credit card for a local gas station chain and gave it to Kelly so she wouldn't have to worry about gas prices. I determined that Michael's father had never been part of the equation and that Michael had accumulated expensive medical bills from an earlier medical condition. I paid those. Kelly also had substantial credit card bills so I paid those as well. Michael was in first grade. I had him registered at the best private school in Omaha, Brown, and paid the tuition and fees. Michael was going to a shoddy day care after school, so I found a top quality after school program and paid for it. I also opened credit accounts at a local department store and Whole Foods which Kelly got access to. I'm sure I was missing things but that was a good start.

Once Jake was back on his feet, I ran a few more batches of bolts. I drove to Chicago and stayed at the Palmer House. I hired a limousine and went to see the Svartalves. Everything went the same as it had the last time around. I pulled out the case, put it on the table and laid out the trays. Mr. Honi and Mr. Guna took about fifteen seconds each to review each bolt. They were wearing gloves that managed to look both elegantly stylish and work practical. A few hours later, they looked at me and smiled.

Mr. Honi said, "Thank-you for the bolts. If we have anything else to do together, we will contact you."

With that Mr. Honi and Mr. Guna packed up the bolts and left the room.

I had a date with my corporate lawyer that night. We went out for a great steak dinner and then back to my hotel room for some quality time.

It reminded me of how we met.

It was during my Bright Futures Society visit. I had just made my first presentation to the Svartalves. Like this visit, I had no idea if it had gone well or been a complete disaster. It's hard to describe how I felt. The meeting with the Svartalves had been like the ultimate job interview. Succeed, gain security and untold success. Fail and I was probably facing a fate worse than death. Having agonized for months on what to say, having said it, and now having zero idea how it had gone, I was, to put it mildly, stressed out. I was sitting in my suite exhausted and couldn't calm down. I decided that a nice glass of bourbon in the hotel bar might help, so I pulled myself together and went downstairs.

The Palmer House is a really nice hotel and it has a really nice bar, the Potter Bar. Of course, it's all really expensive. It was late on a Thursday night and the bar was almost empty. I sat in a comfortable chair by a small table and the bartender, a well dressed young man, came and got my order for a glass of house bourbon and ice. I watched him go back to the bar pour my glass, put a bit of ice in and bring it back to me. He set down my glass on a cloth napkin and left.

I sipped my bourbon and did breathing exercises and otherwise worked to calm myself. I became aware that there was one other person in the bar. She was wearing a very nice business suit and was seated by herself at a table, documents spread about in a very orderly manner with a glass of white wine beside her. I would guess her age as late thirties and very well kept.

I waived the bartended over, "Would you please inquire of the lady if she would be kind enough to let me buy her a drink?"

The bartender replied, "Certainly sir." and walked over to her.

She looked up at me and smiled. She held up her glass and swirled it about.

The bartender returned, "She says she has a drink, but wouldn't mind some company."

Well, I couldn't ask for that to go any better, could I?

I walked over as she collected her papers. She had long dark brown hair and as she leaned forward to collect her papers I saw the back of her neck. The Japanese are right, there is something very erotic about the back of a woman's neck. She leaned back up and smiled at me as I finished walking to her table.

As I got there, I smiled back awkwardly and asked, "Do you mind if I join you?"

"No, please have a seat." She replied with a very pleasant and self-assured voice.

I tried not to be obvious, but I gave her a hard magical once over as I sat down. Probably looked like I was staring. She was, to all appearances, a perfectly normal, mundane human. Definitely lived in her head.

I sat down in one of the big comfy chairs, setting my drink down carefully. Then introduced myself, "Hi, I'm Jack Fox. I'm visiting from Omaha."

"Omaha?" She replied teasingly, "So you made it to the big city. Good for you."

"I take it you're a native of this fair city?" I answered.

"Yes, I work just down the block." She answered smiling.

"This workplace of yours is so poor they can't afford a table for you to do your work?" I asked in teasing reply.

"Of course, they can't just let me go sit in a cornfield like you're used to." She replied, apparently enjoying the reparte. "Actually, I find it sometimes pleasant to work late here instead. It can be quiet, and no one looks at you funny if you have a glass of wine while you work."

"It's pretty late to still be working, what are you doing, developing a cure for cancer?" I asked, still trying to be cute.

"No, I'm a corporate attorney. My firm has a number of clients in the city and region. I want to make partner before I turn forty, so I have to work harder than the next associate, and they work pretty hard." She answered fairly seriously.

I had been asking smartass questions, trying to be charming, to which she had replied warmly and matter-of-factly. I decided to change tacks. I said simply, "Well that's very convenient."

When I didn't speak for a second, she bit and asked, "How is that convenient?"

"I have a consultancy in Omaha. I work on enterprise computer security for a number of clients. It may not sound very glamorous, but it's actually less glamorous than you'd think. That said, it pays the bills, but my clients require my discretion. Since I imagine your clients do the same, we can respect that about each other and neither of us will have to worry about one trying to wheedle secrets from the other." I answered seriously.

Her eyes twinkled as she thought through the advantages and answered, "That is convenient."

She started to slowly pack up her papers as she asked, "So what brings you to the windy city?"

"What you'd expect. Meetings with potential clients today. Suppliers tomorrow and Saturday, maybe Sunday. Hopefully, it'll be a bit of a working vacation too."

"What would make it a vacation?" She asked innocently.

"Meeting someone really interesting." I answered.

"That's a tall order. What do you think the odds are of that?" She asked in reply.

"Ten minutes ago I would have said, 'Very poor.' Now I'm becoming a lot more hopeful."

That made her smile.

"Is this your first visit to Chicago?" She asked.

"Actually, yes it is." I answered.

"I bet you haven't tried the brownies." She said with a nice smile.

"I guess not. Are they good?" I answered a bit confused.

"Palmer House brownies are as good as they get! Did you know they were invented here?" She asked.

"Here in Chicago?" I answered, still a bit confused.

"No right here at the Palmer House, for the Chicago Worlds Fair." She explained.

"Then I have to order some for us." I said.

"No, you're a Palmer House brownie virgin. I have to order." She said and waived her hand.

The bartender came back and she ordered us a brownie. When it came, it was as good as advertised.

I found the experience of sitting there, eating my very good brownie with my good glass of whiskey while talking to an intelligent, interesting and accomplished woman both relaxing and exciting at the same time. Most importantly, very distracting.

"You know you offered me a drink." She said after a bit when our brownies were gone.

I immediately started to wave for the bartender.

"No," she said. "I understand they have something really good in the rooms. We should see if it's stocked in yours."

"That's a question I would really like answered as well." I replied, hoping my voice didn't crack with eagerness.

She had collected all her papers and folders neatly into a valise. The thing was way too big to be an attaché. She could have a bazooka in it, or a bomb big enough to take down the hotel. I had looked her over pretty carefully, she seemed mundane and thinking about her cases, but it's not like a pro couldn't put up a counter illusion. The smart thing would be to go to bed alone. But she was classy and beautiful in a mature way that made her far more intriguing than one of my college girls. We got to my suite, we didn't really spend any time looking for liquor and what we did really helped calm me down so I could get some sleep.

The obvious question at this point, I suppose, would be: Did I use a seeming? The answer is no. I experimented a bit when I first mastered seemings and decided it was impractical to use them for one-night stands. That leads to another question I could imagine from my imaginary critics, is it wrong, immoral, or unethical for me to use my seemings? Perhaps to myself, I feel, but not to anyone else. I have been thinking about it a lot since my time with Poison Ivy.

I can imagine if someone heard about my seemings, it might sound like I was using evil magic powers to seduce these poor innocent girls against their will. I think of seemings as essentially gentle effects, which change how I seem, not how the girl thinks. The seemings are designed to help me seduce a girl's will, not control it. If the girl is not interested, despite my very alluring seeming, she can walk away.

There are magic techniques for mind control, they're evil and destructive. Essentially, you're moving the furniture around inside someone's skull. There are many problems with doing that, starting with every move is destructive. Further, each piece of furniture may have general purposes, but there are huge numbers of secondary connections in a human brain, breaking them, which moving the furniture inevitably does, can cause all sorts of unintended consequences. I don't do that.

There are also conventional brainwashing techniques, generally using drugs, torture and other unsavory things. A little magical insight would be very useful in such a process. One could know if one was pushing not far enough, too far, or just right. What was giving the subject the will to resist. Etc. I definitely don't do that.

The girls I seduce with my seemings want me for the same reasons girls fall all over pro ballplayers, singers, handsome young billionaires, etc. The seeming makes me seem extremely intriguing. That said, there is no chain on the girl's foot, no lock on the door and any girl who would want to leave knows she would be sped on her way with money in her pocket and my best wishes for her success and happiness.

Financially, it's a windfall for the girls. All the girls I recruit are grad students. Most grad students like to live in private housing. My girls live with me, their housing, board and transportation taken care of. They mostly come with deep student loans and have steep tuition and fees still to pay. I take care of those. I think the lack of financial fear helps them focus more deeply on their studies. Further, they gain real and valuable experience. Take Miranda for example. The typical student in her program is lucky to have a hot plate and toaster in her apartment. For their class projects, they have to use facilities at school which are okay, but not great, and shared. They have limited budgets for ingredients. Miranda has access to her own pro grade kitchen and an unlimited budget for ingredients. When she has to prepare something for class, that has to be an edge. Further, most of Miranda's classmates are lucky if they can get a line cook job while going to school. When Miranda's done with the program, she'll be able to say, truthfully, that she ran a pro grade kitchen and cooked for an entire household. Diane can say she looked after a large estate's grounds. Holly can say she managed a large estate. Those are the kind of lines on a resume that help a young graduate stand out from the crowd.

I can hear critics saying that "Yeah, those are nice benefits, but they have to sleep with you to get them."

To that I only offer the wisdom of the golden rule. The Golden Rule is important to me, and for the cynics to me it means, "Do Unto Others as You Would Have Done to You."

I remember being in my early twenties. I was, like most of the male population of the world at the time, a big fan of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models. Elle Macpherson and Stephanie Seymour were a big deal. I particularly had a crush on Stephanie. If Stephanie had wandered through my life and said, "Come back to my hotel room, I want to boink your brains out." I would have gone happily.

Obviously, the next morning, I would have been desperate to see if there was some way to extend the relationship. Even if she had declined, as I did after one-night stands when first experimenting with seemings, while I would have been very disappointed, I would have also been the owner of a sexual experience that would have warmed the remainder of my life and been intensely grateful.

If Stephanie had said, "Why don't you come back and live at my luxurious mansion? I like to keep a few boys around the place. I'd expect you to maintain the computers and clean the toilets. The boys mostly wear very small, very tight spandex shorts, bow ties and nothing else and every so often I'd probably use you for sex."

I would have killed or died for that offer.

Obviously, the offer I give my girls is much nicer, and by the way, their manner of dress is up to them. I have never given them a suggestion to dress that way.

So no, I hadn't used a seeming on my corporate attorney friend, though I suspect she would have liked it. Why not? I guess I was just curious to see if I was enough without it. I suppose every celebrity who can get girls by the bucket load is happy at first, but then starts to wonder if the girls like him for the celebrity or himself. I was in the fortunate position that I could simply just not turn it on.

I met the corporate attorney again on Friday and Saturday night, so I guess she liked me well enough. We had a conversation on Saturday night about the future.

"I'm not interested in becoming your girlfriend or more, I'm focused on my career and probably always will be. That said, when you come back to Chicago, or I have a trip to Omaha, I wouldn't mind having something to look forward to. Also, every so often, I have to make an appearance at a social function, it could be very useful to have someone appropriate on my arm. I would be willing to do the same for you in reverse, when possible." She explained.

"That sounds like a very practical arrangement, I would also like something to look forward to in those circumstances. There is one thing you need to understand about me though." I replied.

"What's that?" She asked.

"I work in security. Knowing and being around me can be dangerous. If the wrong people found out, they could decide to harm you to get to me. Or they might try to harm me while you were around and think of you as in the way. It's never been an issue yet, but it could happen." I answered.

"Well that just adds a nice little spice of danger to the whole thing." She answered smiling, I don't think she took it very seriously, but then went on, "Actually I already thought of that. You would not believe how much more paranoid they have become about security here in Chicago the last couple years. I guess it comes with the territory."

On her first visit to Omaha she landed on a Friday morning and insisted on having a taxi take her to meetings all day. She let me pick her up Friday night. I took her to a show and a nice dinner. Then back to my garret. I have a small but very comfortable apartment above my garage. Most of my seductions end up there. It keeps the women separated from my life and seeing that I have a harem.

That was ruined when Miranda brought us a nice breakfast in a skimpy outfit Saturday morning.

"Who is that?" She asked in a bemused but very curious way as soon as Miranda left.

"That's Miranda. She's one of the girls who lives with me." I answered truthfully expecting things to go south quickly.

"There's more than one?" She asked.

"Yes, I have three girls living with me. They do various household chores and no, it's not a platonic relationship." I answered.

"So let me get this straight. You have three young hotties living with you, prancing around in outfits like that, and ready for action at moment's notice?" She asked.

"Yes." I answered matter of factly.

"But you pushed all that aside for me?" She continued.

"Yes." I answered again.

"That is so validating." She said with a genuinely pleased smile.

She had to work more on Saturday, but we got together again Saturday night. This time I brought her to the main house. All my girls were giggling about my "girlfriend." I thought they would be put out, but instead, seemed happy for me.

We saw each other again when I came back for the bolt order and she had visited in Omaha once more. I also went for a Christmas eve party her firm held where I was appropriate and well-dressed arm candy. There was a particularly nice reward for that one.

If there is one lingering problem about Poison Ivy, it's that she burst my complacent bubble about my love life. I know that this may sound like a rich guy's problem. I've climbed the gold mountain of sex. Yes, I have three girls at home always at the ready. I have this relationship with my corporate attorney from Chicago. Beyond that, I'm pretty promiscuous, the garret sees a substantial variety of visitors. I was happy with that. I'm living the kind of fantasy most guys can only dream of. At the same time, I haven't felt fascinated by a woman the way I was fascinated by Poison Ivy in forever. Also, at some level, I want to find the right woman and settle down, maybe have some kids. I haven't really thought about that in a long time. When I was an awkward student, I was grateful for any female attention. Then as a young guy, I was hardly super successful, but I had my moments and really was just focused on partying and having a good time. Since the White Man, I've been in disaster recovery crises mode. Women have been for stress relief and housekeeping. In fact, I had been considering adding a fourth girl to the household. A girl that could help me in the shop could save me a lot of time.

My current life is also VERY comfortable. I could clear my decks and send the girls on their way, but then how would the chores get done? They save me a lot of time and not so pleasant chores. What Poison Ivy showed me though, was what I was missing. I want to feel that kind of passion. I want to feel real love and commitment. It was now on my mind. A lot.

Back home. After Jake looked like he was past danger I got some errands done. I took the mini-van to a nearby car wash and had it thoroughly detailed.

I told the detail guy, "We went hunting and got a deer. The tarp in the back got messed up. I don't want to bring it back like this, they'll charge me an arm and a leg and the New Yorker running the place will probably call the police."

I slipped him an extra hundred and he did a pretty good job. I got the bench back in by means of the luggage cart but didn't bother to attach it. Then I returned the van.

Holly took me back out to the boat landing, and I collected the Infiniti.

I had Jed help me collect up Jake's bike from the hotel and bring it back to my place.

I could have handed the bike to Jed and Jed would have done an excellent job, but it felt like something I had to do myself.

I could see the bike had a cracked header to and was leaking oil from a blown gasket to start. I disassembled the bike down to parts. The engine was basically good so I rebuilt it with all new gaskets and some harder wearing bits so it would tolerate the ethanol in modern gasoline better. I replaced the header. The transmission was also bad, so that went to a place that sent me a rebuilt replacement as soon as they received the broken one. The brakes were in a bad way, so they got rebuilt. The forks were good, but the rear shock was shot so that got replaced. The seat was worn and torn so it went to the upholsterers. Many of the body components were rusted so they went to the chrome and body shop and were refurbished. Front and back wheels got new meats. The gas tank was shot, so it got a new tank. All rubber parts were replaced. Any bolt showing wear was replaced. The only performance upgrade was changing the headlight's incandescent light bulb to a high-performance xenon one. I then reassembled the bike. I didn't make it into a show ready model, but the bike did look a lot better, more importantly, it ran better. It would have probably been cheaper to buy a new bike, not to mention saved me a lot of time, but sometimes one does things for emotional reasons not logical ones.

Back home I got a call from Kelly. She and Jake seemed to be getting along pretty well now.

"I got a call from Presbyterian."

I got the name, a Mr. Hegelberg. Kelly had apparently visited the Pres Emergency room on the way to me and filled up a knapsack with needed supplies. Kelly was a skilled emergency room nurse, a wonderful mother and a budding chef. She was not a master thief and the security cameras at Pres had clear evidence.

I visited Mr. Hegelberg and we agreed that if we paid back the $16,000 that the materials she borrowed from them had cost and made an additional $10,000 donation, they wouldn't have to pursue the matter further.

I met with Kelly later to tell her the good news. I expected her to be happy or relieved, but she still seemed nervous.

"Is something bothering you?" I finally asked.

She looked stressed but finally answered, "You've been doing a lot for me and Michael. I'm worried about what you expect in return?"

I was kind of surprised. I decided to address the first concern first.

"No, I don't expect you to sleep with me. I'm doing these things out of a sense of gratitude. You should not feel indebted to me for them. In our first conversation I mentioned a bonus if Jake lived. Jake lived. You could consider this all an earned bonus. Further, I've taken some liberties without asking, like enrolling your son in that school. Expecting you to have to pay for uniforms and school supplies would be thoughtless and rude on my part. In truth, I do hope to become friends and colleagues. I work in a dangerous business. I might need the kind of help you gave Jake again. However, none of what I've done is contingent on that help and if you don't want to the next time, it will not change what I'm doing."

"Oh okay." She answered. I think she was a little surprised by my answer, she was probably expecting me to put the squeeze on her for sex. She was pretty, but I had no such intention.

"You should also understand that what we were doing when Jake was hurt was trying to rescue a young woman from a bad situation. It didn't work out and Jake was hurt. The kind of people who had the young woman don't have to worry about things like the police. They're also the kind of people who might track someone like Jake back to a hospital and kill him there, maybe by blowing up the hospital and a lot of innocent people. I got your help because it was the best chance he had."

"That sounds pretty wild." She said.

"You should also be aware that hanging around people like Jake and me is inherently dangerous. It hasn't come up yet, but it could. I'd like you to stay, but you're under no obligation."

"I think, for the time being, I'd prefer to stay." She answered.

"I'm glad to hear that." I replied.

I spent a lot of time with Jake as he recovered. When he was reasonably mobile, I checked him out of the hotel and moved him into a nice efficiency apartment next to Kelly's.

When I brought the bike back and gave him the keys his face lit up, "My Dad's bike!"

I guess the work was worth it.

There are nights in my home when I sleep alone. Nights when one girl joins me. Not too many when two join me, the third feels left out, and some nights when we all stay together. In the house, there's a home theater room I call the "Den."

It has some nice comfy chairs and a big comfy couch I sit in. There's a big floor with really thick carpet and lots of odd shaped pillows and quilts. Sometimes a girl sits with me on the couch. Sometimes they lie about the floor, often doing homework. We spend a lot of evenings in the Den. It's a comfortable spot to unwind. There's a 110 inch super high performance screen and a sound system that will make most IMAX theaters weep with envy. Miranda will bring me dinner here if I want it and snacks and drinks if we all hang out.

It was my first night back after seeing Jake to his new apartment. We ended up staying together on the floor.

*** And now a word from our sponsor! ***

Please don't miss that this is the first exciting book in a series. This book is followed by Warlock of Omaha Squared and Warlock of Omaha Cubed, both also on this site!

If you enjoy Star Wars and my writing, you may also enjoy a series of three Star Wars novels I have written, all called Legend of the Harp!

This writer, like the story teller in the market of old, now has a hat out hoping for a small gratuity. There is no obligation and I'm grateful you took a moment to read. However, if my writing has found favor in your eyes, please take a moment to go to:

Pay

Pal

.me

/hemaccabe

and throw in a little something, a dime, a quarter, a dollar, etc.

While I love to write, I do have a spouse and a child and a job and many other claims on my time that don't understand why I would spend so many hours banging on a keyboard. A small tangible return would help smooth the way to allow me to provide many more stories.

Please help. Thank-you.


	8. Chapter 8

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 8 Awkward Beginnings

The raid on the "Fomor," was complete and the bolts were turned in, one way or the other for both.

You'd think I would be at my mental and physical leisure and you would be completely wrong. Aside from the questions Poison Ivy had raised about how I was living my life and whether I could achieve real happiness I had other areas of concern.

First was, what the hell was I facing? The so called "Fomor" at the warehouse were very un-Fomor-like. Jake and I had assumed they were Fomor. Jake had told me during our talks after the fact that he had never smelled Fomor before, so he just assumed they were Fomor. I had read a variety of reports about the Fomor but had never before tangled with them directly. There was the barge and the water monster, very Fomor, but then the guards and Poison Ivy were very NOT Fomor. I knew the Fomor weren't a monolithic force. They're composed of many different internal parties and jurisdictions. It could be I was facing my own happy pocket or something completely different.

I had now had four incidents in my life. White Man, Forest Man, Mob Incident and Poison Ivy. Poison wasn't exactly the same as Forest Man, but I definitely felt like they were related. Poison's thugs were definitely reminiscent of White Man's, but MIBs were kind of a generic look. Were they all connected? Did they just seem to be? The Mob incident was the only outlier. That said, I had always assumed Mr. Albici had acted on his own out of general mobster cussedness. On the other hand, what if he had been manipulated by whatever was otherwise harassing me.

So that was stirring around. Not much I could do until I learned more. But my mind kept gnawing on it, reviewing them detail by detail looking for something that probably wasn't there. Forcing me to review my least happy moments over and over.

In terms of my equipment and load out, I now had some major work to do.

The Svartalves may not have needed the bolts or for all I know they needed exactly five hundred bolts for a specific project. The bolts might have just gone into a reserve hardware library, like at a hardware store or well stocked shop. I had confidence the Svartalves kept a very well stocked shop. Now that they had 5/8" bolts I could imagine being called back in a couple months with a request for ¾".

On the other hand, the Svartalves had taught me a new trick which had improved the quality of my magic. They not only taught me but had functionally assigned me a set of learning practice problems, like an elementary school kid learning math. It had definitely been a wax on wax off moment. That may well have been their objective. The bolts could have just been a learning exercise. Having examined my pistol, they may have realized the low level of my ability. So, they assigned me a job with no purpose other than teaching me a new skill so they could keep me in their virtual reserve hardware library in case more work was necessary. The truth is that to do their style of enchantment took me almost all day for the first bolt in the first batch. After that I had thought the reason I had six months was that it would take that long to do the enchantment work. However, by the last few batches, I was doing it in under thirty seconds a bolt. I had become more proficient not just in the Svartalf magic, but in magic in general. I had substantially better control and finesse than I ever had before.

That meant there was a substantial opportunity to upgrade my gear across the board.

I also had become aware over the last six months of a new generation of CFRTPCs. CFRTPCs are the modern version of things like Kevlar, very tough plastic backed by very strong synthetic fibers. Most CFRTPCs had been rigid up to this point. However, the new generation was supposed to be flexible, and might look like leather if treated right. That implied the possibility of a whole new generation of armor. I hadn't checked on the ceramic, but I wouldn't be surprised if there was a new generation of ceramic as well.

I had already been planning on producing a Baby version two to include a new sighting system. I had debated back and forth about retrofit versus new gun. Retrofit would mean Baby was down for a while, which would have been bad if the warehouse had come up while she was in the shop but would have meant least time used. Baby version two had some redundancy built in and I liked that. I might have huge stockpiles of ammo, but I only had one pistol and one rifle. If something smashed one or one was dropped in the river, welcome to a huge step down while I slowly assembled a replacement. That was a major strategic liability. Building a new Baby for the new sighting system meant I would at least have a pretty good backup rifle if something went wrong. Now I had the new enchantment tool. That mean version two would be a substantial improvement.

My Glock was also ready for an upgrade. My current Glock 20 was mostly stock, with some performance bits, an early version of my barrel and, of course, as much magic as I could pour in.

Updated weapons were on the shortlist, but my highest priority was ammo. With what I had learned about enchantment, the possibility of substantially better ammo was very apparent. I had a short-term goal of 76 new rounds in 10mm and 71 of 50 Beo. It's funny. I had been debating with myself what my ideal combat load out for ammo would be for years. More ammo is obviously better but adds weight and bulk. The raid had settled the question. There was room for flexibility if necessary, but it was good to have it settled for now.

I had been designing the new rounds in my head for some time. I liked the basic construction I already had, but how I would lay down the magic had completely changed and with that I felt a new sorting system was in order. How OC of me.

I would now have stage one, purchased ammo. This category could have a wide variety in it from cheap plinking rounds to high tech man killer rounds to stuff that had not been legal for purchase.

Stage two would be the ammo I produced for public competition. The steel was replaced by poly tips that would not be illegal and easier on the competition targets. My 50 Beo was known to shatter steel targets. I participated in a lot of competitions. Competitions give me a real opportunity for practice, training and testing my skills and equipment. In addition, they're as close to real as I can readily get, so even though going represented a risk, it's also a balanced reward. In fact, there was a major Three Gun match in three months. I wanted my new gear load out to be substantially ready by then.

Stage three would be my standard steel tip without enchantment.

Stage four would roughly correspond to what had previously been stage two and stage five would correspond to stage three.

The new stage six would represent the literal state of my art. I had previously produced different levels. Now I would focus on stage six exclusively and keep stage five in all weapons until there was stage six available.

There was one other major area where I was dealing with something new. I knew in Chicago there were werewolves who had started out human and learned how. There was disagreement in the knowledgeable discussion groups about whether they had been minor talents first or if they were completely vanilla humans. Either way, it was something I wanted. Unfortunately, none of the werewolves had shown up at the Bright Futures Society meeting, or if they did, I had not realized it was them. Further, how does one walk up and ask, "Hi, I'm a complete stranger. You don't know me from Adam. I could be trying to kill you or worse. Would you give me the secret to your greatest strength?"

Then Jake showed up. I doubted he could teach me much about being a werewolf. He admitted, while we talked as he recovered that it had always been there and had manifested when he turned thirteen. He blamed some of his trouble in school on the lycanthropy. He had no idea if it was something possible to teach.

We had agreed before the raid that I would be allowed to examine him afterward. I had, at length, while he was in the bed unconscious recovering. I then worked my own magic in myself to see if I could duplicate what I was seeing in Jake on myself. At first, I kept screwing up. I couldn't make the magic go right. Then I could get it to go right but couldn't hold the pattern. But sitting next to an unconscious person in bed for several days with little else to do, gives one plenty of time for practice. I kept working at it as I worked on the bike, then as I worked the final batches of bolts and eventually could hold the pattern. It felt really good, which helped motivate me to hold it longer and longer. By Thursday, after I came back from Chicago the pattern was holding itself pretty much without any conscious effort on my part.

On Friday morning, I woke in the Den and was crazy hungry. I went to my room, did my morning ablutions, noticing my beard was much fuller than normal as I shaved, and got dressed. Then I went down and had my regular breakfast. When I had finished my regular, already pretty hardy breakfast, this morning with blueberry muffin, Miranda started to clear my dishes. I stopped her by asking, "I'm still hungry can we do it again?"

Miranda gave me a surprised, "Okay," and went back in the kitchen.

She went on to make another breakfast and brought bits out as she finished cooking them. Miranda normally serves a perfectly timed meal in stages. The second round was rougher as she was basically just cooking everything and was running it out as it became ready. I wasn't picky. Despite eating two breakfasts, I was still not all full, but didn't want to bother Miranda any more. I'd already made her late for class, so I went to my shop instead of begging for more food, but it was hard.

As I sat in my workshop, I reviewed my various new projects, did research and planning and made orders. I expected a stream of overnight parcels to start making their way to my home soon.

My first priority was the bullets. Previously there were limiting factors on how magic my bullets could get. I had only so much magic to give and the process had been wasteful, probably 95% of what I was pushing out was burned off into the atmosphere. Also, there was only so much I could wedge in, as I pushed in more magic, each bit took exponentially more and more from me until it approached infinity. Different attributes had minimums as to how much magic they required. Lastly, I couldn't take a week to make one bullet. At the 'Fomor' warehouse, I'd been painfully aware that every time I had pulled the trigger on a stage three, half a day of my life went down the barrel.

I have a lot of experience enchanting bullets and with the new enchantment process but putting the two together wasn't a gimme.

Now, with what I had learned from the Svartalves, I could put in way more energy, both because it took less from me, a much larger percentage of what I pushed out went in and I could push in a lot more before it started getting really expensive. Further, the long production run of bolts had honed my skills to a razor's edge meaning I could do it in minimum time. I only had to finish my design to start production, but the design wouldn't come. My normal design technique had been to sit in the lab and stare at the problem until the solution came, maybe trying a few different things to jog the process along. That wasn't working. These new Stage Sixes would be wicked. At least if I could ever figure out how to do it.

As I sat around trying to create a new bullet design, the clock slowly ticked over to ten am, I had to get up. At first I thought, "I'll take a quick jog around the perimeter." I exercise a lot, so it felt reasonable. But I couldn't settle into my normal pace. I was sprinting. It felt good. Really good. Like being high good. I kept at it for an hour, sprinting the whole time and then decided I needed more. I ran down to and all the way around the nearby University campus and then stopped at the student union. They have seven restaurants in the student union. I ate a big meal at each one. I was still hungry. I also was aware of just how weird I was behaving. I didn't have any of my armor or even my pistol. I was making myself a stupid easy target. I ran home.

I got home around one. A new, very elegant, Stage 6 design had popped into my head and I began production. I had good prototypes fast and began production soon after.

I decided a little celebration was in order, so I called Jake and told him I was taking him to dinner again. He agreed.

I got up from my desk in the shop around four and jogged into the house. I took a shower, got dressed in clean clothes as I normally would for going out. I noticed my shirt wasn't fitting very well. Worse, my armor vest also wasn't going on. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me, I'd been eating like a wild pig. I pulled off my vest and shirt and went to look in the mirror expecting to see a distended gut. Instead, I noticed my stomach seemed flatter than usual. I had been a fairly hard exerciser for the last ten years, but it had never been enough to overcome my earlier life of limited physical effort. Now I was seeing what seemed to be the beginning of an actual six pack! The problem, I realized as I continued to look, was my chest had grown! I wedged myself into my now not fitting so well gear and went to get Jake. I had to overcome the desire to run there.

I got Jake and took him back to Jericho's. I had considered going to a teppanyaki place I like, but meals there were served in seatings. That had never been a problem before as they served a large meal that had always meant leftovers, now I was famished to the point I needed more. Jericho's could get another plate of food in front of me fast if I was still hungry.

Jake and I settled in and ordered. We had some business to discuss.

"So how are you settling in?" I asked.

"Okay." He answered. "Kelly took me over to Nebraska Furniture Mart and we bought a bed and linens. We also got me a TV and a computer. I'm not sure why I need a computer, but Kelly said to get it. I got some more clothes and some other stuff. They delivered the bed."

"Well that's nice. Do you have any plans?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" Jake asked.

"Well, I'm happy to cover your basic expenses for a while. It's not a big deal. But I think you would be happier if you found something to do with yourself." I answered.

"You mean like a job?" He asked.

"Well, yes. Or perhaps going back to school." I answered.

"I'll think about it. Man, you sound like my Ma." He answered looking unsure.

Something about the way he said that felt very present tense.

"Your Mother is alive?" I asked.

"Of course, she's back in Lowell." Jake answered.

"When was the last time you talked to her?" I probed.

"I guess a little before I left with Cassie." He answered uncertainly.

"Tonight. Call your Mother. Tell her where you are and that you are all right." I said with more force then I wanted.

"Hey, don't be so tight. She doesn't worry like that." He tried to shrug it off.

"Call her." I said with finality.

Then, deciding to change the subject as Jake nodded, I asked, "How are you getting along with Kelly?"

"I like her. A lot. But it's so weird." He answered very forthrightly.

"How so?" I asked.

"I was so in love with Cassie up until just a few days ago. Now I'm looking at another girl." He answered looking kind of sad.

"Cassie was just magic. She was working on you. It wasn't real. What we did in the warehouse broke the spell, so it makes sense that's going away. If we run into her again, she'll probably try it on you again. Real feelings for a real person will help you fight it. Make you stronger. Don't be afraid of how you feel about Kelly. Even if it doesn't work out, at least it'll be real." I told him using my older and wiser voice.

"Okay." He answered.

"I'm not sure what your long-term plans are but let me tell you what I'd like. I like you Jake. I'd like you to stay here in Omaha near me. That way, I could look out for you best. We're both small fish in a big ocean full of very nasty predators. We're a lot stronger together than we are apart. If you decide you want to go your own way somewhere else, I'll send you on your way and wish you well. Just let me know what you want."

"Okay. That's reasonable." He answered.

I then continued, "Tell me something about this werewolf thing. I've been trying to figure it out. Lately, I've been crazy hungry, and my clothes aren't fitting is that normal?"

That got Jake to laugh.

"When I was thirteen and it hit, I went from being a 4"8' nothing to this in just a few months. It drove my Ma crazy. She couldn't keep up with the food or the clothes. I couldn't focus on school. Just trying to get enough food to eat. Eventually, it settled down. Just give it time." Jake answered amused and I think happy that he could be the wise experienced one for a change.

I realized that we were both on our third king cut of prime rib and I was still hungry. Oh man.

I had wanted to buy Jake a car before but discovered he didn't have a Driver's license. "I have one in Massachusetts, but it got lost on the night they grabbed Cassie." he had explained.

At dinner I explained, "I set an appointment at ten tomorrow morning with a lawyer friend named Jim. He'll help you get your identity together.

"You mean the boat guy?" Jake responded.

"No, a different Jim. Will you go?" I answered and gave him Jim's business card.

"Yeah, sure. I'd like to have my license again." Jake answered good naturedly but a little embarrassed.

I could have done the research, and maybe I could have made Jake do it for himself, but I had enough on my plate, and I wanted it done and I didn't think Jake would be able to handle it well or quickly. Jim would help Jake get his license and do a bit of background checking for me.

"I'm also going to set up an appointment soon to meet a dangerous guy. When I go, I'll want you with me. Okay?"

"Yeah sure." Jake answered. "When?"

"I'm not sure. I want this werewolf thing to settle down first and to get some other projects done. I'm doing a lot of work on my gear and that could take a bit. We'll see. I'll give you some warning when we get closer."

I had decided to meet DiAngelo. There might be some common ground for us with the Fomor. It would be tricky on several levels. DiAngelo would likely see an overture as weakness. My business was all about security, being seen with the likes of DiAngelo would not be good for business. My business was a strategic asset. It provided access. It provided money.

The next couple days were the weekend. I did more research on a number of subjects including ceramic armor. I called my guy at the place where I got my stuff. They had improved their stuff in the last six months. I had helped them make the jump from level 4 to what they called level 5 armor, was a major investor and customer so I was inside the circle of trust. They considered their new stuff level 5.1 not level 6. They were working on improving, but they didn't expect anything new for another year. They would drop ship me a generic new chest piece Monday along with some samples. It wouldn't be a custom fitted piece like I had now, but having been a size large since age 18, I had bought an extra-large.

On Monday, I went and got my labs up and running again. There are a number of institutions of higher learning in the greater Omaha area. The two largest and most prestigious are the University of Nebraska at Omaha and Creighton. I have a relationship with both. I don't teach. Both got significant donations to their endowments to start. They each get a PhD scientist, at no cost, on their faculty list and when I publish, and I do publish, they get prestige from it which is worth it's weight in gold to an academic institution. My papers haven't been in top of the line publications like Science or Nature, yet. But they have been published in second tier publications. They do get read. They do get cited.

I have substantial lab space and good parking spots at both universities. The girls all carpool to one institution or the other and like to use my parking spaces. The labs are filled with equipment I've paid for. I have a group of faculty advisors who send me over grad students when I ask for them. The grad students are bright, sharp and do a lot of the scut work saving me a lot of time. The grad students learn a huge amount in real world applications. The labs had been dormant while I worked on the bolts and the faculty advisors were glad to have me back. My lab in one university is for materials and the other for computer and electronic engineering. I won't say which is which, like it matters.

By Tuesday the parcels were coming in. The new armor chest piece fit, but it wasn't as fitted as the old one had been. I was still eating like a horse, running like a crazy person and my body kept changing.

I also found myself telling my faculty advisors I was looking for a new intern to work in my computer and electronic engineering lab. They knew what I looked for in an intern. They knew she would have to be brilliant and capable. They also knew she had to be lightning hot. Yes, it's very sexist and illegal, but it's my money and I can get away with it. The advisors accept it because good paying internships are hard to come by and crazy valuable to a school of higher learning. With this intern, I'd be generating an average of one per year. They played by my rules to keep the option. The only problem would be if one of the girls complained, and one can see from my home life, they don't complain.

I also have groups of perfectly normal, well as brilliant as I can recruit, grad students in both labs doing my research whom I mentor. It's a normal academic arrangement which allows them to do some work of their own and have something to publish. My grad students were running tests in my materials lab. I had found there were two examples of the new breed of CFRTPCs that were more flexible, and I now had a sample of the new 5.1 ceramic as well. I got my grad students working on running all sorts of tests on the samples.

After a few days of testing, we found the CFRTPCs, we'll refer to them as Type A and Type B, were not created equal. Type A might be more flexible than 650 steel but wasn't glove leather. More like shoe leather. Type B was more leather-like, but not nearly as bullet proof. Neither had the resilience, fire proofing and other features I wanted, and my current leather substitute had. I should have only had samples, not formulas, but I had stolen the formulas as well. I went to work with the two grad students I had just working on CFRTPCs and we reformulated adding the resilience and fire proofing from the ground up. We did both types of CFRTPCs and we made some wrong turns but came up with some great stuff.

For example, we made me new boots. We used improved Type A for the soles. I still had a ceramic shank, now made from the 5.1 ceramic. I won't bore you with how I made the ceramic toes crush proof. The leather uppers were made from improved Type B. My feet had been a weak spot. The ceramic shank had protected the bottom and the toe, but the body of the foot was exposed, depending on leg armor for cover and that not fully covering. Now the bottoms were much better protected, and the tops had serious armor protection. They still looked like the grey/green suede boots that were favored by many local Air Force guys.

My electronics lab was working on developing a new scope and helmet for me. In the firearms world, they say that the scope, or "glass" should cost as much as the rifle. My time shooting was proving the truth of this sentiment. That meant a major upgrade in glass was in order. Baby has a Trijicon VCOG set for .308 mounted. It's a very good scope and by luck, the .308 markings match up very well to the .50 Beo as I shot it, but not perfectly. The way a standard scope works is there's a cross in the middle, hold that cross on target and if you're rifle is sighted in right and you hold and shoot well, you hit the target. However, bullets drop as they go further down range, though sometimes they also rise do to the relationship of scope to barrel. In addition, there might be wind from either direction pushing sideways. A good scope will have hash marks on the cross helping you keep track so you can adjust one mark for wind a couple marks for distance and bang, you're still on target. With practice, it can be done fairly quickly. I felt electronics had moved on and a new scope was possible.

Companies like Tracking Point had started selling electronic smart scopes. I had one in inventory and had stolen their software. I knew I could do better. I could put a variety of sensors on the rifle. We were at least 20 years past when every good scope should have a laser rangefinder/designator that would give exact range. A micro Doppler radar now existed that would give exact wind velocities in three dimensions, not two. A gyro, not unlike the one in your cell phone, was readily available which could tell what angle the gun was at. In addition, there were other sensors that could go in like a humidity sensor, altitude sensor, etc. This would allow the scope to make the judgment where to put the aim point, improving accuracy and speed by an order of magnitude over the VCOG. All the electronics would be behind a glass lens that was the size of a quarter and cost six digits.

The crowning glory was an insanely capable image sensor. They weren't really available on the market. I was using contacts in Japan just to know they existed. They were being used for things like spy satellites and telescopes and other beyond bleeding edge applications. One cost a lot. They were wholesaled in sets of five, so I bought five.

The scope, based on initial design, would be the size of, and look like, a small rifle mounted flashlight. Nobody would think twice when they saw it attached to the rifle. It would be mounted in the frame below the barrel. I could do that because I wouldn't be looking through it. The image would be wirelessly transferred to my helmet.

My helmet was also going through a major rebuild. I had previously had a clear visor with a very limited head's up display. The advances in CFRTPCs meant a new helmet could be a generation further along in protective ability. My old helmet had mics all around. Microphone technology had advanced a generation beyond what I had before. The big change was what I called my "frog eyes." They were two very big, very capable lenses mounted on my forehead. They were backed by two more of the image sensors. They would provide vision through sealed goggles attached to the helmet. The frog eyes were capable of telescopic vision that was insane, I could watch ants two miles away. It was also packed with high-performance lowlight and infrared. This also put my eyes under armor and the way the muffs protected my ears from loud noises, the goggles would protect from bright flashes.

This kept the top of my head all under armor, especially eyes and ears.

The scope could impose an image on my vision through the goggles so I could see what my guns were looking at and where they were aimed. Among other nice advantages, this gave me the ability to look around corners without exposing my head.

For aiming, the scope could be used two ways. Like Tracking Point, for long range sniping, I could designate a target and the gun would fire itself when aimed true. However, I also wanted to create a short-range system where the scope would keep track of exactly where the gun was pointing taking into account all the variables for you so one could focus on the shot and battle, not hash marks.

I had a goal for all my equipment of three months. There was a Three Gun tournament I wanted to go to, and I wanted my gear ready for that. I already promised the twins to meet them there. There was another motivator. I just knew whoever was behind White Man and Poison Ivy, I had their full attention and they were coming.

*** And now a word from our sponsor! ***

Please don't miss that this is the first exciting book in a series. This book is followed by Warlock of Omaha Squared and Warlock of Omaha Cubed, both also on this site!

If you enjoy Star Wars and my writing, you may also enjoy a series of three Star Wars novels I have written, all called Legend of the Harp!

This writer, like the story teller in the market of old, now has a hat out hoping for a small gratuity. There is no obligation and I'm grateful you took a moment to read. However, if my writing has found favor in your eyes, please take a moment to go to:

Pay

Pal

.me

/hemaccabe

and throw in a little something, a dime, a quarter, a dollar, etc.

While I love to write, I do have a spouse and a child and a job and many other claims on my time that don't understand why I would spend so many hours banging on a keyboard. A small tangible return would help smooth the way to allow me to provide many more stories.

Please help. Thank-you.


	9. Chapter 9

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 9 Sharp Dressed Man

I had done my best getting all my irons in the fire and getting as much help as I could to move it along. I would have liked to prioritize the guns and the bullets over armor and clothes, but my size kept changing! I had started at 165 lbs., but I was moving past two hundred and I had lost 4 inches on my waist! My girls loved it. I was also dealing with all sorts of more subtle changes, it was like going through a second puberty and my head kept hitting things.

I discovered doing physical things felt really good, lifting, moving, especially chin ups for some reason. I'd start doing chin ups and not bother to count. Running was still the best. I was discovering new gears. When I started running after changing it felt like sprinting because it was my fast sprint. Since then I found a faster sprint and then another after that. My previous sprint now felt like loping. I mapped out a recent Omaha City marathon, then ran it. The pro who had won it the previous year had done it in just under 156 minutes. Running through traffic, doing some in higher gear, but not really pushing it, I did it in 93 minutes. Welcome to super human. Feels good.

I was still eating everything I could put in my mouth, preferring meat to all other things. I used to call one girl to my bedroom a week, now I had all three every night and they were all happily complaining at the hard use, when they thought I wasn't around. Which was another thing, my senses were all much sharper, particularly smell and hearing.

Finally, the changes slowed down after a month. I had grown three inches, mostly in my legs. My arms were longer, my hands and feet were bigger, but my waist was smaller. When I started, Jake would have seemed like a hulking mass behind the little magic guy in front. He was still bigger, but not by as much.

I still had bottlenecks in my production system because there were many jobs only I could do. I had to fit in the armor. I had to do all the magic. So, I was always running, and the phone was always ringing.

A lot of gear that one might buy reflects various design compromises. Glock produces a remarkable pistol for roughly $600. Glock could do better, but who would pay $10,000 for it? Not many. I, on the other hand, wanted every bit of performance I could get and had the budget for it. I had crossed a Rubicon with Baby. From now on all my firearms would be fabbed from the ground up. I had purchased a new Glock 20 and Tavor and those guns would sit in my safe forever unused. I would be fabbing everything up from scratch on two new guns which would nominally be the ones in the safe.

I had learned a lot making Baby, and all of it would be in the Glock.

Glock makes their chassis from plastic. It's very good plastic, but it needs to be cheap and easy to work with. I had used titanium reinforced carbon fiber for Baby's chassis. I looked at other options but decided to stick with the titanium reinforcement. However, carbon fiber is another way to say CFRTPC. CFRTPC is essentially state-of-the-art carbon fiber. So, my chassis for the Glock and Baby would be titanium reinforced Type 1 which made them so much stronger and more rugged than stock.

I was also radically changing the Glock's mechanism. Since this was mostly illegal and reflected work I didn't want to share, it meant I had to do it and that meant lots on CAD/CAM time for me. Wonderful. It took a lot less than it might because I had done the process with Baby. CAD/CAM programming and design took three days. Fabbing the parts took two.

I did want to do some experimenting with barrel lengths, so I visited my farmer friend. I took Jake with me. It was 100+ degrees F and over 100 percent humidity outside that day, but the experiment didn't take more than a few hours. Hot, sweaty, unpleasant hours. I wanted to see if the barrel for the 10mm should be longer or shorter. I discovered that the barrel was still getting better out past 9 inches. However, past 9 inches they have a special term for pistols, it's called "rifle." I stayed with 6 since it helped a lot power-wise over the normal barrel length and was fairly standard as a long slide.

I tried to have Jake do some shooting. Jake was initially excited about shooting the way any teenage boy might be. I thought it might help us bond. It didn't work out well. Jake has a gentleness about him which was at odds with firearms. He was definitely scared of the guns and each time any gun went off, he'd flinch. So much for that.

A week of work had me a new Glock 20 with true Baby-style barrel and recoil effects. When I tested it on my home range, the recoil was negligible. Then I put in magic. My last pistol had been good, this one was so much better.

Luckily for my armor, my body's growing took place while we were doing initial analysis and redevelopment on materials. The first thing we did was the boots. We should have done the coat next. Sigh. Instead, we did the chest plate and that worked out well. At first, I was just going to get another fitted piece of ceramic, this time made of the 5.1. Then I got stupid crazy. What if we took a sheet of graphene and put it on both sides as an adhesive? Then added a few mils of my improved Type A on the front and a ¾ mil sheet of improved Type B to the back? The protection improvement was substantial. Nothing would stop big enough rounds and endless hits, but this would help me soak a lot more and stay in the fight. The layers were also particularly good in reducing kinetic transfer and spall.

When I finally stopped growing, I went to my seamstress, Ms. Zhukov. She was actually a professor at the University where I did my materials work and seemed to have a soft spot for me, though I did pay her. I had ten new pairs of pants made. The belt was four inches narrower and the inseam two inches longer. My feet had grown, but my sock size hadn't. My old shirts had been hand made of silk in Hong Kong. Sigh. I'm sure Goodwill will make good use of them.

Ms. Zhukov and I experimented with what I called battle pants. They were the same as my normal pants, except made with some pieces of improved Type B. We tried several variations and aside from not wanting to become the "Leatherman" joke, I wanted to avoid too much weight, inflexibility and discomfort. Eventually we came to a pair made from improved Type B from the waist down to the top of the knees. The pockets and lower legs would remain ripstop cotton. I didn't expect to wear them every day, just when I knew trouble was about to happen like with the gauntlets and leg armor.

Also, traditional BDU pants have a round pad about two feet across in the seat and crotch area. I had Ms. Zhukov make mine from improved Type B and sandwiched in cotton. Every extra bit helps.

I took Jake, Kelly, Michael and Miranda out on a shopping expedition to a big hunting outfitter store called Cabella's. Michael got a fishing rod toy, some nice play clothes and some badly needed new shoes. He also spent a long time with Jake looking at the giant aquarium. The girls didn't get much for themselves, the place is really not for girls who aren't outsy doorsy. I think Miranda and Kelly ended up with an item a piece.

Kelly took to Jake though and since most of Jake's very limited wardrobe was from Target's bargain bin, she took time and picked him out a lot of new clothes and some new shoes.

During a quiet moment, I told Kelly, "You have that credit card for the department store. Don't be shy. Get yourself some nice things."

I had reviewed her bills on the card. All had been clothes for Michael and those sparing.

Kelly gave me a suspicious look. I suspect most of the men trying to buy her stuff in the past had been trying to buy her.

"Think of me as a Father-in-Law who's very grateful your taking such good care of his son." I added.

The look on her face moved from suspicious to confused. Which I guess was an improvement. I tried to add a nice smile before we both had to go back to other things.

Miranda found me these really cool dark green hunting shirts with padded shoulder and elbows. I bought one and brought it to Miss Zhukov and had her make me ten fitted versions.

The coat was finally next. Each piece of internal armor had to be made. The process was a lot simpler than my first coat. After all, we had the first coat as a prototype. However, my size had changed so we had to scale up. The big pieces in particular would have to be fitted to my new proportions. Unlike the last time, when the armor pieces were made of ceramic only, these would be sandwiches, like my chest piece, of ceramic, graphene and the CFRTPCs.

Then there were the fish scales. One of the reasons my ceramic armor provider is so popular is they make armor pieces essentially shaped like fish scales. This allows the armor to be both tough and flexible, key armor virtues. The first coat had scales created by my armorer in areas where flexibility was key. This time I machined the scales in house each one with a bit of graphene and improved type A on the back. The improved type A was slicker and tended to click less which was great.

What really was amazing was that the base material for the coat would be my Type B CFRTPCs. My original coat material was good, this one would be so much better.

Since I was bigger, the coat had to be bigger and therefore heavier. However, proportionally, it was lighter, which was great. It was also a nice opportunity to fix spots that had been wearing poorly or uncomfortable on the first coat. Ms. Zhukov actually came to my materials lab for a day to help put it all together.

The leg armor and gauntlets stayed the same shape but got scaled up and remade from new materials. The gauntlets hard shells were now 5.1 ceramic, the "padding" was my improved Type A and the "leather" was improved Type B. All representing a substantial upgrade. The leg armor was painted in black lacquer and the gloves in dark forest green metallic. Not the most tactical choices, but very cool.

All my armor got heavy magic enchantment making it far better at warding off lightning, fire, blunt force and bullets. There was also room for putting in a bunch of nifty tricks, though I would be more careful about who was standing to my right.

So, all the new work was going smoothly except one area. The new sights. We were making slower than desired, but still reasonable progress on physical assembly, but the software was just not coming along. We had better batteries and smaller, lighter, more energy-efficient, and much more capable hardware, but the software was still not coming. I decided to bring in some help.

I looked through the list of available grad students provided by my faculty advisors after my last request. After careful review and some interviews, there was a Brenda who looked like the best of the bunch. I had the faculty advisor send her over with word about a very good paying internship. I have a small office adjacent to my lab at both universities and met with her there. She was gorgeous.

I had made a point of getting new clothes that morning and making sure I was clean and well groomed. I was buying off the rack clothes at a local high-end men's store because my size was changing so fast. As we went through all this development and production, it was easy to pull all-nighters and loose track a bit on one's grooming, particularly as the speed of my hair growth seemed to have increased substantially.

Brenda came into the office as I was finishing something on my notebook. She had red hair. Long, curly red hair. Wow. She was tall, nearly six feet and an unreasonably large percentage of that height was leg. She was really fit. She wore a reasonably conservative white dress blouse, though it was open a bit at the top displaying some very ample cleavage. She was wearing a nice black pleated skirt, that on most women would have dropped to the knee or below, but on her left a good hand's width of leg showing above the knee. While she sat down quickly as I gestured to the seat, I could see she was wearing two-inch pumps.

I began my standard sales pitch about how I had high quality internships, blah, blah, blah. I used the time to give her a serious magical once-over. She was vanilla human and lived in her head, but also a little in her heart, which was not uncommon, but nice in a woman. I also inserted a probe into her mind as gently as possible. She was thinking about wanting this internship, hoping the money was good. She had noticed the once over and hoped her outfit had won over "the lechy old man."

Finally, I got to, "Can I review some of your work?"

"Oh, sure." She replied and pulled out her notebook. We went over some of her coding projects and I was very impressed. She had the goods. She was also too good to be true. I had done my basic search, but someone else could be a better hider.

I dug deeper and there was just more Brenda. I got an image of her standing on stage in a bathing suit and sash, desperately disappointed. The memory was driving her here today. She was as legit as I could determine without major invasion which would probably harm her. So that meant plan b.

I pulled my seeming out and let it go to work while I briefly reviewed what we did here at the lab.

I could see it go to work inside as her impression of me went from "lechy old man," to rock star god. One could watch on the outside as her cheeks flushed, her eyes dilated and her back arched, putting her décolletage on more prominent display.

When the seeming had worked it's magic enough. I stood up and said, "Well, I'm very impressed. We have to review your qualifications a bit more. We should have a decision by this evening. Would you like to join me for dinner so we can discuss it?"

"Um," She started to reply, but then had to swallow, "Okay."

I made arrangements to pick her up at her apartment that night. Then I called Holly and told her to make sure the garret was in good condition for the evening. Then I called Miranda and told her not to make me dinner.

I worked the afternoon away trying to resolve problems with the sighting system. Part of the problem was that it needed a lot of controls that in turn had to be easy to reach while operating the rifle OR pistol. Just to make it all double difficult, there were two modes it needed to work with. Without Tracking Point's stolen software this would be impossible. With, it was still a complete mess. I made some progress on several fronts but was still far from a solution when it was time to get going.

I went home and pulled myself together. A nice jacket, shirt, slacks and shoes that didn't look silly. I strapped on the new Glock in a discreet location and made sure she was loaded with Stage Six. I then took the Infiniti and picked Brenda up at her apartment. She had her hair up in what I think was an effort to make it look grown up. She was wearing the heck out of a little black dress. She was wearing hose and what I'm pretty sure were the same two-inch black pumps she wore to the interview. That made sense, an unlimited shoe budget would have been part of a Fomor agent's kit, but not a grad student on a limited fellowship. The way her skirt hiked up as she settled into the passenger seat before I closed her door was delightful and I got to find out that the hose were stockings.

I took her to one of the nicer restaurants in town, a place called the Grey Plume. The meal was tasty, but small and felt overpriced for what I got. I got the sense that Brenda wasn't excited about it either.

We talked. I was already in her mind watching. I asked, "You're very attractive and you carry yourself in a way that makes me think you did some modeling?"

"Yes, you're right. I was runner up in my state beauty pageant. Just below what I would have needed for a scholarship." She answered ruefully.

"Tell me about it?" I asked.

She then proceeded to give me twenty minutes of details and anecdotes that made her either among the world's best liars or simply authentic.

"So, I suppose you studied dance?" I continued when she slowed down.

"Oh yes, I love ballet. I studied since I was four. Unfortunately, I was too tall and too," at this gestured to her décolletage, "to ever go pro. I did minor in dance for my bachelors."

"I love the ballet as well. Did you know, I'm on the board for the Omaha Ballet?" I didn't add along with about fifty others, but it got me great seats and into all the right receptions.

"Wow, that's cool." She answered.

Up till now everything in her head had been fine, that last comment of mine made her worried that I was gay. So, I felt safe saying, "Nothing sexier than a ballerina."

That made her heart jump and funny feelings start in special places which I would have seen from her body language if I wasn't already aware.

"So, are you continuing to study dance or do you have new any new hobbies?"

"I don't want to give up dance completely but, I'm thinking of taking up shooting." She answered without guile.

"Shooting? Like guns?" I asked disingenuously.

"Yeah, I grew up on a farm in the middle of nowhere," she said the name of the state, another rural Midwestern state next to the one I had grown up in, "our Dad taught us shooting from when we were kids. I'm pretty good. Maybe I'll even try competitive, but it's expensive. Guns aren't cheap and ammo is crazy." She answered brightly.

"Perhaps if you start the internship, we'll sponsor you." I said smiling.

Wow. She wasn't sure I was serious about sponsoring her but liked the idea. I thought that a girl who was into was shooting was sexy as hell.

We had plenty of time to chat as service, despite the place not being busy, was slow.

"So what areas are you planning on focusing on in your career?" I continued.

"I want to focus on real time ballistics calculation." She answered.

She was just too good to be true.

"Really, what about that area interests you?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"My brother Billy was a Marine and died in a firefight in Afghanistan. If he had better faster sights, maybe he'd be alive today. Tracking Point and other manufacturers are making baby steps in the right direction. The right research and we could have a new generation of sights in a few years." She answered, feeling it inside very strongly.

I was hoping for something a lot faster than a few years.

"Well, you should know that we're working on cutting edge scope technology in my lab, trying to push exactly that sort of development. We need the right person to help bring it to reality." I said.

That got her more excited than finding out I wasn't gay.

"I want you to come on board in my lab. I think you'll find an internship with me very rewarding. What do you say?"

"Okay." She answered a bit nervously.

We discussed technical matters for a bit and dinner ended. I paid discreetly and we made our way from the restaurant.

When we were in the car I asked, "You didn't seem to enjoy that meal much?"

"I guess I'm more a steak and potatoes kind of girl." She spoke again very disingenuously. I liked that. I could feel inside her head as she kicked herself for insulting my restaurant.

So, I said, "It really wasn't my kind of thing either. Any chance you're still hungry?"

She was. "Yeah I guess." She answered uncertainly.

One of Omaha's hidden gems is a fast food place named Broncos. They have the best fried chicken in town that can be bought fast food, decent burgers and some of the best fries around. They start with real potatoes and go from there. Unlike most yahoos who try and fail to do fries like that, Broncos actually knows about washing off excess starch and using two fryers in two different temperatures. Result, consistently really good fries.

As I pulled up to Bronco's downtown location I asked, "Have you ever been to this place?"

"No." She answered honestly.

I wasn't surprised. It was a hump from the university and hard to realize how good it was if you didn't already know.

I ran through the drive thru and got us two double pony burgers, two fries and two large sodas.

We both ate as I drove. I knew she was really enjoying the burger.

When she was done, I asked, "Still hungry?"

"No that was great." She answered.

"Glad to hear it." I answered smiling.

I drove back to my place and pulled around to the garret.

I sensed she was eager and nervous.

I stopped, got out and walked around to her side and opened the door.

She got out.

I then took her in my arms and kissed her.

She kissed back.

She murmured, "Where are we?"

"This is my place. I'd like you to stay the night." I said.

"Okay." She answered again.

"Are you on birth control?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm on the pill." She answered.

I took her up the stairs and into the garret. I turned on the mood lights, they were enough to be pleasant and see, but not be harsh.

I put my cell phone in the speaker to start some music and found a recently opened bottle of champagne with two flutes on the counter. I served us both a glass. We sipped for a moment then I put down my glass, took her face in my hands and kissed her again. She now tasted of champagne and passion and it made me hungry. It was a hunger I saw reflected in her.

I turned her around, it was a very short zipper on the back of her dress and that came right off. I worked the snap on the back of her bra and was rewarded with some remarkably beautiful endowments. She was wearing a very brief thong panty and stockings without garter belt. I led her to the bed and had her sit down. I took that moment to undress.

I handed her drink back so she could sip and enjoy the show. My jacket came off and then my shirt. I knew that when she looked at my chest and stomach, she liked what she saw. I kicked off my shoes and socks, then undid my pants. She then noticed that I had been packing. She was surprised and pleased. Without shame I removed my boxer briefs leaving myself naked.

I went back to her. I pushed her gently back onto the bed, gently taking her drink and setting it aside. I then lifted her legs and removed the panties. Her sex was a darker, curlier richer shade of red and very beautiful. I then took a rose that had been set near the champagne and climbed onto the large comfortable king bed. I took the rose and ran it gently over every inch of her exposed body. I could feel her passion and arousal thrumming in her body and I entered her. I was very surprised. She was a virgin. I stopped there, my manhood half inside and asked, "Do you want me to continue?"

"Please." She said her voice strained. Having been respected and asked made her all the more aroused.

I then entered her fully. She cried out like a little bird and the sensations for me were incredible. I had never been a woman's first. I felt so privileged. I made the best love to her I knew how. I was constantly aware of what brought her pleasure, what she wanted and tried to give it to her in concert with what I knew had pleased many partners before. She came quickly to her first climax and then seemed to begin climbing again almost immediately. I brought her to a series of climaxes, each higher than the last and only when I thought she was on the verge of passing out, did I release myself, provoking her last, final and most powerful climax before she did pass out from pleasure.

I pulled myself out gently so as not to disturb her. I went and got a washcloth and cleaned myself. I found I also needed to use the commode. I then returned to the bed and took her in my arms which caused her to murmur happily in her sleep.

We slept till morning. I awoke when she awoke. She rolled over in my arms and kissed me.

"I think we should talk about the future a bit." I said.

"Okay." She answered a bit confused and nervous.

"I want you to understand some things about me which are very unusual." I said then continued.

"The offer for the internship is separate from any personal details. You are not obligated in any way under it to be with me like this." I said. She hadn't really thought about it that way until I said it, but she liked it when I said it.

"However, I would like you to move in with me. You could live in my home rent free and expenses paid for as long as you like." I said.

She liked the idea of moving in. She was thinking the garret might be small for the two of us.

"This is just the garret. The whole estate belongs to me. You would have your own suite. There's maid service, grounds maintenance and a chef." I explained.

She liked that idea a lot.

"You have to understand something hard now. I already have three girls living with me. They're also interns, and I have physical relationships with all of them and will continue to do so." I explained.

She didn't like that, but basically felt the same way about me that I had felt about Stephanie.

"I also have other women I see sometimes and occasionally meet new ones. I'm promiscuous. Despite that, I expect you to be faithful to me. It's not fair, but it's part of the deal. Can you accept that?" I asked.

She could and nodded.

"Also, I work in information security for some very wealthy clients. There is an element of danger associated with that as the wrong people may try and harm you to get to me or see you as in the way as they try to harm me. It hasn't come up yet, but it might. My home and life have some strict security rules. I expect you to abide by and respect them. Will you?" I explained and asked.

"Yes." She answered sincerely.

"I'm really glad you feel this way. I really want you to be part of my life." I said.

She liked hearing that and liked it even better when I took her face in my hands and kissed her again. She started kissing me very hungrily and was clearly becoming aroused again when she realized how sore she was and actually let out an, "Oww."

I took her from the bed to the amply sized bathtub shower and washed her carefully from top to bottom. I then cleaned myself and she was kind enough to help me with my member. We dried each other off and I dressed in last night's shirt and pants while enjoying the beauty of her nudity. She actually blushed a bit. Then I got her a small, thin, cotton robe. On Miranda, the robe would come to mid-thigh. On Diane, it would wrap almost the whole way over. On Brenda, it barely was low enough to hide her goodies and, despite her very thin waist, her endowment was barely covered.

I then led the newest member of my household to the dining room for some breakfast.

Miranda was going back and forth to the kitchen while Diane and Holly sat and ate. The three all stopped and looked at Brenda with round eyes and nervous smiles. I spoke.

"Brenda will be joining our household. She'll be helping me with work at one of my university labs and here in my shops."

Then I stopped and made introductions, "Brenda this is Holly, Diane and Miranda. They also help me around the house. Miranda, I want you to make time this afternoon to help Brenda pack and get moved out of her current place. Diane, please take some time after Brenda gets settled to give her a tour of the grounds and review security procedures. I'll fix her phone. Holly, please help Brenda get settled and show her around the main house. Brenda will be staying in the Suite between Diane and Holly. Everyone, please make Brenda feel welcome."

We sat and had breakfast. I ate well. Miranda was now regularly feeding me much larger portions of everything along with pancakes, pie and a chocolate croissant this morning. The girls all ate more normally. I noticed Brenda started by only nibbling nervously on some toast, then, perhaps noticing how good the food was, or how hungry she was, or both, ate a solid meal. Good for her. I looked at my girls, Miranda was apparently only wearing a chef's smock, and that was only covering her bottom intermittently. Diane was wearing her typically revealing work clothes. Holly was wearing a see-through nighty with no bottoms. I suspected their particularly provocative dress was a way of welcoming the new girl.

As I finished my breakfast I said, "Miranda, please make sure Brenda gets back to her clothes and apartment. Holly, I have some laundry concerns please accompany me to my rooms."

Diane and Miranda smiled knowingly at each other as I left with Holly. I could hear them start asking Brenda all sorts of questions as soon as they thought I was out of the way.

I took Holly back to my bedroom and quickly made use of her services. Several times. What I had done the previous night had been performance art, this was satisfying basic hungers. Before Jake, the night with Brenda would have been all I needed for several days. Since the changes began, my appetites had increased dramatically, and what I had done with Brenda the night before had simply not satisfied. What I did with Holly was more like wolfing down a cheeseburger when famished, we both enjoyed it, but it was much more to the point.

When we were done, I said to Holly, "When she's moved out, please go to Brenda's place and clean it up really well. Also, text Miranda and tell her to offer to take Brenda to the mall and buy her some nice things for around the house. Use the house card."

Holly rolled over on her side to face me with a chipper smile and said, "Will do!"

Holly is such a help.

I cleaned up and got dressed for the day.

Being with Holly so quickly after Brenda had made me wonder again about Ivy. If what I wanted was real passion and perhaps even love, I seemed even further away. With my new appetites, could one woman keep me satisfied? I know that sounds arrogant, but my three girls had actually been starting to feel the strain. They had all welcomed Brenda not least because she could now share the load.

The thought made me uncomfortable. Luckily, I had work to do.

I got to my materials lab. More fabbing. More fitting.

I went to an all you can eat place for lunch, and they lost money on me. I didn't enjoy the eating, just needed to get full as fast as possible.

Then I went to my electronics lab.

They were making good progress on the hardware. I had good components and a good young man, Wai Loon and a young woman, Ofelia Apodaca getting them together. The software lagged. I worked all afternoon, called Miranda and let her know I would miss dinner, and worked late. I was six weeks from the Three Gun match. It would be nice to have some time to actually practice with the equipment before I took it into competition. I couldn't say with certainty, but it felt like we were months away from a working prototype.

I got in at ten. The girls were hanging out in the den with Brenda watching a show about women in jail. I sat down on my couch, trying to summon the energy to get up and go to my bedroom.

I noticed then that they were all wearing matching pink, ruffly underwear. It ended up being another night in the den.

The next day Brenda came in with me to the lab. I spent the morning reviewing the project and the problems.

"This stuff is ten years ahead of anything else out there!" She exclaimed when I showed her the helmet and scopes.

"You have Tracking Point's proprietary software?" She asked shocked later while I was reviewing the software.

"Yes. If we don't release or garner commercial profit, it won't be a problem. If we want to release commercially, we'll come to an arrangement with them." I tried to answer nonchalantly.

We got some lunch brought in. I bought everyone pizza. Then we repaired to my office.

Brenda pulled out a notebook and showed me some software she had already been working on. It was gold. It solved many of the problems we were facing. It was really good, reliable, fast, and very sleek code.

We spent the next three days integrating what she had with what I had already. We still didn't have a working prototype, but we were much closer. I could see the end and we had a fighting chance.

I took just Brenda to bed that night. She was healed up and very eager to try again. I discovered just one woman could sate me.

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	10. Chapter 10

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 10 Only the Young Can Say

I had Jake come over. Brenda was working on the code at the lab. I had to make sure the guns the code was for actually worked. I had the Glock and Tavor all fabbed up, now came the hard part. Each gun was now made of lots of new parts with new weights and new balances.

I had a one hundred yard range underground at the house. I started with the Glock. I had loaded the Glock's mag with a random mix of my stage one and two. Since stage one had a lot of variety in it, that meant the Glock had to be ready for anything on short notice. I fired it for a while until it jammed. Then switched to the Tavor and did the same. Jake sat out in the hall, with high performance ear muffs I had bought for him, playing with his IPad and reloaded mags for me. He probably still didn't like being around the shooting.

I took the guns back to my shop, examined them and figured out why they failed. Which part needed to be lightened or made heavier. Which part of the gas system needed to collect more or less. If a new part needed to be fabbed, I got it set up and went to work on the other gun. I knew serious development shops could spend months and years on this kind of work.

While I worked and fabbed, Jake played with my chin up bar and went for runs around the neighborhood. I was also hungry and tired of always being hungry and a little crabby.

I got a call from Miranda around lunch time.

"Yeah?" I answered more sharply than I meant to. I was annoyed and frustrated. Then I felt bad, because Miranda didn't deserve that tone.

"There's a pan baked fried chicken in the fridge. There's a whole chicken for you and another for Jake and big bowl of mashed potatoes." She answered.

"To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your call." I replied in a much nicer tone.

"I just wanted to mention, if we're going to have four girls living in the house, we'll probably need at least one more car." She answered.

I could tell that she was trying to sound grown up and responsible, but there was an undercurrent of nervous. The simple truth is that there is a power dynamic in every relationship, and I held the lion's share in this one. That didn't mean I wanted her to feel nervous making reasonable requests. I wanted her to feel safe and valued.

"That's a really good point. I've been busy lately and I probably would have missed it. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you helping keep an eye on things. I'll get a new car soon. I really appreciate you pointing that out." I replied.

"Oh good. That's great. I have to get back to class now. See you tonight. She answered and hung up.

Another car. Well that meant a trip to the dealership.

We knocked off at four, with some new parts ginning in the CNC machine and went for a drive.

I took Jake down to Bellevue where the Subaru dealership I liked lived. When I buy a car for someone I care about, I buy a Subaru. They have a better record for safety than any other manufacturer. The cars have AWD standard which is a necessity in a town like Omaha. The fact that they're cheap to buy, own and extremely practical doesn't hurt.

I ran us through Bronco's drive through on the way and we bought a mountain of food. We had eaten all the chicken and mash Miranda had left and by four we were already hungry, and I knew this would take a while. We got to the dealership. I parked the truck and we went inside.

You would think that at least one dealership would realize making buying a car a painful long hassle was a bad idea. I haven't found one yet. I always buy the Forester. I like the best equipped one on the lot without a turbo.

I didn't bother to test drive the one we picked out. We adjourned to the Salesman's office. I made a reasonable offer, he countered. I took out my notebook. Jake took my lead, pulled out his IPad and went back to work. Salesman went with "I'll go see what my manager can do."

They began playing the making us wait too long game because making impatient people wait is part of the ritual. Waiting makes customers willing to compromise when they shouldn't. Salesman came back with a counter offer. I shook my head.

"You can do better." I said not even looking at him.

At least I was getting work done. I had sat myself in the Salesmen's seat on one of his absences, it was more comfortable. I was working with Brenda online, reviewing what she had accomplished that day, being pleasantly surprised because it was way more than I would have expected. We exchanged work and ideas and were making real progress. Compared to the annoyingly slow progress with the guns and playing the pointlessly stupid ritual with Salesman.

They wanted to know if we would finance. I baited my trap. I used a social security number I had available with modestly bad credit to fill out the app. They came back with a crazy high interest rate. I then negotiated them hard on price letting the interest rate stand. They gave, licking their chops for the interest they thought they were going to get. We finally settled on a price within a few hundred dollars of my original offer. When they took us back to sign papers in the office, I pulled out my checkbook and paid cash. I took some pleasure in that I think I saw one of them weeping in the hallway. Still, that was three hours of my life I would never get back.

I had called Miranda around five when it became clear that I wouldn't be done by dinner.

Jake drove the Subaru and I drove my truck. We went to the Hooters in Council Bluffs. They were having an all you can eat wings deal. We intended to make them lose money on it.

We got a good table, late as it was on a weeknight. We both started with forty wing platters.

"We will indulge one beer each and then have soft drinks." I announced.

We ate a lot of wings. We ogled a lot of barmaids. I saw one of DiAngelo's guys, but he was there for the same thing as us. We gave each other wide berth and nothing came of it.

During a quiet moment I asked Jake, "How's it going with Jim?"

"Oh, really good. I got my license, a copy of my birth certificate, we ordered a passport and we opened a checking account." Jake said proudly.

"Get me the routing number and account number of that checking account. I'll start putting a little something in there. You shouldn't need to beg if you want to put some gas in your bike or take Michael out for ice cream." I said.

"Cool." He answered.

Jim had prepared a report for me about Jake. His father had been US military, killed in Iraq. Unfortunately, he and Jake's mother hadn't been married and in the absence of the father it became impossible to prove Jake's parentage, and thus no benefits. Jake's mom had gritted it out with a series of blue collar jobs, heavy on cleaning woman and waitress. Jake had always underperformed at school, likely because of the lack of parental guidance, and had dropped out completely during his second year in High School. He had since been on the fringes of illegal activity and had several misdemeanor arrests. He was a train on it's way to wrecking.

However, either somebody had done a Herculean job building a background for Jake or he was real. It's a standard precaution I take. I had reports for Kelly and Brenda too.

"What are you doing on the IPad all the time?" I asked Jake expecting to hear about something sordid or banal.

Jake smiled proudly again and pulled out the IPad. "I'm getting my GED!"

"What?" I said shocked and surprised. I had been nudging him to do something for a while. Maybe something I said had an effect? It'd be nice to think I was having some sort of positive effect on the world.

"Yeah," Jake said, his Boston accent really coming out when he was a bit bashful. "Kelly said 'You're a grown man. To be with me you have to have a GED. You have to set a good example for Michael.'"

So much for my effect. At least something seemed to be working.

"She didn't stop there. She had me get the IPad, then she showed me how to sign up for classes and do the work. I can do it anywhere there's a wifi hook-up."

"Ahh," I thought to myself. "Maybe that's part of it. Have to not just tell the horse to drink. I have to take it to water. And provide or withhold sex."

"Wow. That's really cool. I'm very impressed." I said with all sincerity. "Show me."

He showed me his work on the IPad. He was making good headway on Social Studies, English and Science, but was lagging on Math.

I looked up at Jake and said, "This is really amazing. I'm really actually very impressed and pleased. If you need any help with this, especially the Math, just come over. I'll work with you for as long as you need."

"I don't know." Jake said looking evasive. "You have so much important work to do…"

"This," I said, holding the IPad, "is more important."

Jake looked a little surprised. I suspect he hadn't had many male role models value him like this.

"Okay," Jake said, "I will."

"Good." I said. Then the wings came.

At first the waitresses were annoyed at us for ordering more than they thought we could eat. Then they were annoyed at us because of our frequent refill orders. Then they got into it. I ate very mild wings. Jake sucked down various grades of spicy like it meant nothing. Waitresses came and hung out with us, sat in our laps and otherwise made a fuss over us. It was great. I had never been treated like this. Of course, I had never hung out with a male model like Jake. We went home with t-shirts and happy memories.

I texted the girls that there was a new car. The rules would be both sets of car keys would have to be left on hooks by the garage door. The first one out in the morning would get choice of car. I expected some trouble. More clutter in the garage. My parking spaces at the universities full all the time. The girls would fight over who got to drive what despite the fact that they were both Subaru Foresters and almost identical, one blue, one red. That's the price of a Brenda I guess.

We got back to my place. I had Jake park in the garage. He got his bike and went home.

I called Miranda and asked her to my room. Gave her a good thanking.

The next day we continued on at our regular pace getting ready for my Three Gun match.

For those who don't know, a Three Gun match is a shooting contest/event/opportunity where one is expected to shoot a rifle, pistol and shotgun. The sport reflects a widely held belief in the US shooting community that to be a well rounded shooter, one must be able to shoot all three types of firearms with some skill. The event organizer sets up stages where one has to face various shooting challenges with one or more of the three firearms.

So why do I go? One can go to a shooting range, set up targets and shoot. That's good, especially if you're a beginner working on basic skills. However, firearms combat isn't about how well one can shoot a paper target. Combat is unpredictable. What weird situation will you be in and what portion of the target at what distance will you have to hit? All while under pressure. When it HAS to work right the first time.

The stages in a Three Gun match represent unique situations that a shooter must solve with his smarts, physical ability and shooting skills, all while under the clock. It's like playing chess, while doing gymnastics and taking occasional shots. Short of being in real combat, I don't know any training environment that's better. Participating in Three Gun matches is critical to my development in being able to defend myself.

Is it too dangerous? I will be leaving my home for eight to nine days. I'll be away from my best defenses, my familiar ground and my allies such as they are. The answer is, there are few places as safe as a Three Gun match. It will be filled with well armed expert shooters who believe in mutual defense. I know gun control partisans would like to paint them as gun crazy yahoos. I know the truth of what decent, honorable men and women they really are. It's a privilege to be in their company. So, if the match is safe, what about the trip back and forth? I'll be driving through at seventy-five plus miles an hour. It will be hard to figure out where I'll be and set up an ambush with satellites and helicopters. Besides I registered under a false identity. By the time my adversaries know where I am and can pull something together. I'll be home.

I had Jed come by and take my RV to a local dealership. At the dealership they would check everything. Replace anything showing wear. They would clean and polish the RV till you could eat off the septic tank floor. Then they'd make sure every kind of fluid was topped off including water and diesel. Then Jed would bring it home carefully not touching anything he didn't have to. Jed had horsed around in my RV on the way home a few years back. We had a talk. It doesn't happen anymore.

I kept working on the guns. Brenda worked on the software. Jake came by and helped. I took breaks and helped him with his math. By the third day I had the guns in hand. I had found the right balances and then fired a thousand rounds through both without a slip. Both firearms were still using the same basic mechanism as their namesakes. Both were among the most reliable/low maintenance firearms ever made by man. They just needed to be balanced out to get back to that state. I hoped.

I then went over every piece of gear with a fine tooth comb, metaphorically speaking, fixing any details and adding magic. I should point out that my ceramic cup went away. It was no longer large enough. I replaced it with an improved Type A CFRTPC cup. Much lighter, better protection, easier to clean, most importantly much more comfortable.

One thing I punted on was my axe. I have an axe. The plan for situations where I'll have to fight with the pistol is to have the axe in the other hand. The axe isn't just good for hand to hand, it's my magical focus. Like a wizard's wand. I can project a weak shield with it and some other useful tricks. I suspect that I could do more now if I put my head to it.

The problem is the axe's blade was forged in New Zealand. I had traveled to the shop down under for it's creation. I was nervous about going down there for another. They could forge it and ship it to me, but that meant finding a new handle. I looked through every piece of hickory they had in inventory before I found the right one. Where would I find a good piece of hickory? There were places I could start near Omaha, but it would take a lot of time. So, I stuck with my old axe.

As we got closer to go day, it became clear the software was just not going to be ready. We had some builds running, but they were weak, slow and prone to crashing. Brenda came up with an alternative.

"In the short run, we can lean on the Tracking Point software and do a decent build that will just run the long-range side." She proposed.

"But I need BOTH sides!" I whined with the grace of a petulant child denied a toy.

She gave me a look and I pulled myself back together.

"That's all we can have ready by go day?" I asked in a more reasonable adult tone.

"That's my educated opinion. Yes." She answered calmly.

"Okay, let's do it. We'll get the rest done when I get back." I accepted.

That might have been the only workable answer for the software, but it presented other problems and presented a basic weakness. The software really wouldn't support fast, short range shooting with a pistol. That was a problem because there was just no way to fire the pistol in an aimed way without the scope while I had the helmet on. The helmet's cameras were my 'eyes' and those cameras sat on my forehead. Holding the pistol up at an awkward angle was the best of a bad bunch of solutions.

That problem pointed out another even bigger problem. The point of the exercise was not to build the ultimate Three Gun rig, it was to help me defend myself when facing magic hitters. Some maybe better than me. I was building one of the most complex man portable technological systems on the planet. I would then be completely dependant on it. All one of those magic hitters would have to do was spark my tech and pop, all screens go black and I'm helpless. I was putting in counter-magic protection, but it was only so good. It's not like I had any high level training in how to protect technology from magic with magic. My recent humbling on enchantment magic showed just how far I had to go.

A basic tenet in the shooting community is to have back-up sights. Scopes, essentially fragile constructs of glass and tin, have been failing shooters under bad circumstances for generations. Only in the last decade have sights started to be developed with real rugged reliability. Even still, most scope mounts are now designed to be easily removed on the assumption the scope might still fail and need to be removed quickly, like middle of combat quickly. The answer was clear, I needed a simple, fast way to get the goggles off my eyes.

That meant going back to the helmet team and nearly starting from scratch. There were many groans. Some mine. But we knuckled down and got to work. It was immediately clear we would have to create a whole new helmet. Luckily, most of the tech systems were simply mounted. They could be remounted, with a little work, onto a new helmet. We reviewed helmet shape for a long time and came up with something that was very reminiscent of a Roman Galea. The cap was tighter to my head than the previous more wok shaped helmet had been and would have better back of the neck protection. In addition, we would work in a pair of cheek pieces that would dramatically improve lower face protection. The original Galea generally had raised sides for ears, as my ears would want to be muffed and protected, my helmet sides were flat and covered the ears.

The really tricky bit was the goggles. Originally intended to be fixed, we had to figure something out. It took some doing by the whole team, but the breakthrough came from a mechanical engineer on staff named Patel came up with a particularly elegant design. Patel's design allowed the goggles to pop up with a single button press. His design had the button on the right side of the helmet.

I looked at Patel and said, "Button has to be on the left side."

He smacked his head with a rueful smile, but it was really nothing. It was the tapping of a key on the computer to flip the design to a left hand button.

Now with a single button press with my left hand, the goggles would pop forward and up, leaving my eyes still protected by a visor made of optically correct hi-impact plastic. The goggles would be in position to protect the frog eyes. I would still be able to shoot the Glock the old fashioned way.

There was another thing affecting me in a lot of ways. After spending a month transforming, and still to some extent, continuing to transform, I could now feel the wolf inside. Where it had come from? I had no idea. Was it some sort of spirit? Was it a manifestation of myself? No idea. That said, the wolf was definitely exchanging thought with me and becoming part of me. I had yet to transform. Jake has to transform twice a month on the full moon. He comes here to the estate, transforms, runs around and howls, then we find him nude asleep the next morning. The girls like that. 

Most stories one reads about werewolves, even in this more educated, less prejudiced era, are still loaded with anti-wolf junk. Werewolves are described as wild, lacking self-control, stupid, drunken, etc. All of that is based on the old hateful stereotypes of wolves. People have been afraid of wolves for a long time. Fear breeds hate. Hate has led to wolves being painted with every dark bit of imagery that humans hate about themselves. Real wolves have incredible self-control. They kill for food, not for sport or fun. Every thought they have is focused on survival. I would have thought the most valuable thing about being a werewolf would be physical. The wolf in me was teaching me all sorts of things about will and focus. A wolf has incredible will and focus. I was beginning to realize that could be more important than the physical advantages, but they were becoming part of me much more slowly.

I had also been thinking about my adversaries. I hadn't figured out any subtle details I had missed before, but I had realized a couple things. First, I should try and get a sample of their work. I knew nothing about tracking magic, but Jake had tracking skills and maybe I could figure something out. Secondly, instead of just killing them on the spot, maybe I should try and rescue them. That pale mud plaster was definitely about control. Maybe once the magic was broken, it would be possible to get the person out? Some of those people might be good allies. More importantly, it was the right thing to do. I'm a big believer in the golden rule and if I was trapped in that mud, it might be nice to die, but even better to be rescued. I wouldn't want to risk the people I cared about or myself too much, if I died, no one was being rescued. But if an opportunity arose?

I had gone back to the warehouse a few days later. Yes, I know, very stupid. Everything was cleaned up. You could see footprints in the dust, it's not like the place had been septically cleaned, but the bodies and the Poison Ivy mannequin were completely gone. As I examined the warehouse, I could see how the "Fomor" had set up on the north wall, expecting any attack to come from the road. I expect the plan was to let us in the front door, take us prisoner and present us in chains to Poison Ivy. I would imagine Ivy's chances for success converting us to her cause in that scenario would have been much higher.

We were closing in on go day. We started packing the RV. I wasn't planning on using it, but all my battle gear was coming along with large supplies of stage 2 ammo, shotgun ammo and all the stage 6 I had yet made. I was also filling the fridge up with groceries and lots and lots of pre-prepared meals by Miranda and other yummies like tins of muffins, pies, ice cream, and lots of fizzy apple juice.

Part of the fun of going to the Three Gun match was the chance to see the Speer-mint twins. The Speer twins were semi-famous. They had been US Olympic Biathletes. Now they were into Three Gun, hunting, fishing, camping and providing training. There had been a commercial that broadcast when I was at a formative age about a beautiful pair of blond women, i.e. the Spearmint twins. The fact that the Speers were beautiful blond twin women just made it too easy to nickname them.

I first met the twins when, early on, I was taking a lot of training classes as I tried to build up skills in self-defense and, particularly, firearms handling. I had money to spend and there's a lot of high-quality training for someone out there with money to spend. I would probably have been better off doing a stint in the military but, by the time I knew what I was up against, that ship had sailed. Now I had received some great training from many, often former military, trainers. However, there were some caveats I would have to apply. First, there was the tendency the trainers had to assume you either knew nothing and start at the most basic level of instruction or that your mother had been showing you basic firearms handling as she weaned you. There was a lot of unnecessary time wasted on lectures about various ideas they felt were important. There was also a lot of macho posturing.

I signed up for a three-day personal train with the Speer sisters. I'll admit, the chance to train was appealing, but I was sold by the chance of hanging out with two such crazy hot twins.

I went to the training not knowing what to expect. What I got was three days of the best training in my life. There was none of the pretense, just good practical technique and handling. Beyond the training, they provided excellent insight into performance under pressure.

A person could travel to the range day after day. Be able to shoot with amazing accuracy. Set up complicated shooting courses, burn through them and still fall apart when it becomes real. When you're life is really on the line, when it really counts, everything gets much harder. Mistakes one would never make in a thousand practice matches happen. Guns that have been rock solid reliable, jam. Decisions that were easy, suddenly become hard.

Stacy and Lina Speer had been to the Olympics. There are few crucibles of performance under pressure more intense than that. They could convey a lot of basic skill in handling that intense pressure and still performing. How to get one's self to breath, to think and to act when there were real chips on the table. They knew and they taught.

The training was in my early stages of mastering seemings. Yes, I pulled out a seeming and yes, we all ended up in bed together. Do I feel bad about it? No. If I had been running a computer training business in my younger days and Stephanie had showed up as a client and wanted to seduce me, I would have been quite happy to oblige. If down the road I had met up with Stephanie at some computer events and we had renewed our acquaintance, all the better. The temptation was to bring the Speers home. They would make great armed security and backup. I'm sure if I offered, they would be happy to come. However, that would mean I was pulling them into my fight. It's one thing to be my chef, yes there's danger, but it's limited. My security? Whole lot more so. Secondly, I felt guilty to some extant that I was using some portion of my girls' lives for my own ends. That said, I also knew I was really helping them to achieve their dreams. The Speer twins had lives right now. They were living their dreams. Coming to be my armed security would be giving that up. I suppose if their business ever started slowing down and they had financial problems, it might be a different story. But for now, there was an endless stream of well-heeled, horny, middle-aged gun nuts prepared to pay dearly for their very valuable services. So, no, they wouldn't be coming home as armed backup, but we did have a tradition of hooking up at Three Gun matches. They enjoyed using me as their personal cook and stress relief device. I got good company and coaching. We made an effort to be in the same group, or flight. Before each stage we would share notes. As I would run through, they would follow me and shout encouragement and advice. Then, after the fact, we would compare notes again about what had gone right and wrong.

We were going to meet at the MGM Ironman Three Gun match. It's the most intense match I know of. Every stage uses all three weapons. It requires more shots than any other match. It's more physically challenging than any other match requiring crawling, running, carrying heavy weights, going down a slide and zip lines. It's the biggest challenge to equipment, requiring more rounds fired under difficult circumstances, including dirt that became fine, silty dust that gets on and in everything. It's the least predictable. The stages are heavily reworked each year and the weather in eastern Oregon and western Idaho where this thing is held have ranged from hundred plus degrees, to rain storms, to one year, a snow storm in July.

In other words, an ideal training and testing ground. If my guns worked here, they worked. If they failed, better here than when the velociraptors were going for my head.

The equipment was always a sore spot for me in two ways. First, there are divisions in Three Gun, from all out tech guns optimized for competition through to much slower weapons. Ideally, one would compete against only one's division and that would give one a good sense of one's abilities. My natural division would be one called heavy metal, defined by rifles with .308 or larger caliber, pistols .45 caliber or larger and pump action shotguns. My 50 Beo was clearly bigger than a .308 and I was still using my Remington 870 Marine for competition, so those weren't problems. The sore spot was that a 10mm was considered smaller than a .45, even though I felt it was a bigger round with a bigger kick. It was a minor controversy in the Three Gun community. It meant I got dumped into the practical division which meant I was very unlikely to win as I was directly competing with people using much more optimized for competition equipment. In the end, I wasn't there to win a trophy and I didn't need prize money or sponsors. It was probably better for me to avoid the notoriety. In addition, the scores were numeric and it was quite simple to compare myself to the competitors in the heavy metal division if I was really curious. I shouldn't have been, but I always did. That said, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to win and didn't want the trophy. I was the kid who never made the cut for teams and never won. I had only placed second at state in chess. I suppose none of us ever get exactly what we want.

The second problem was how I wore my weapons and mags. In my normal world, I always wore my coat. The coat was heavy armor. The new coat would be heavier. The coat also had illusions baked in that allowed me to do that appear two feet to the right trick, among others. The coat also had a holster built into the outside for the Glock. The holster was set just below the belt line, just in front of my midway line, just where my hand would reach for it if there was ever trouble. I also had mag pouches for Baby and the Glock built into the outside as well as a hanging spot for my axe.

In the history of the firearms community, holsters for mags and pistols used to be made of leather. For a while Nylon was popular. Nowadays Kydex is popular. Kydex is a hard plastic. There are manufacturers who use Kydex-like materials that are of lesser quality, those that make actual Kydex holsters and those that make holsters from Kydex-like materials that are of higher quality. It's a large marketplace. One could spend a lot of time testing different products. Materials Science is one of my forte's, so I came up with a simple solution. Turns out improved Type A makes an excellent holster that we could fit perfectly in the lab to match my pistol and mags. If you're going to have a hard piece of plastic sitting there, might as well get some extra bullet proofing.

Unfortunately, one can't wander about visibly armed, people panic in the silliest ways. So, I have small permanent illusions, or veils, on all the weapon and mag holsters on the coat. The veils are good enough to get me in and out of police stations and through airport security, so they're pretty good. I do have a concealed carry permit for Nebraska, but better to have and not need than need and not have. By the way, my new coat would have heating in the winter and cooling in the summer, that Svartalf magic was amazing.

All that is good, but I felt it was impractical to try and wear the coat through the match. Eccentric dress in the shooting community is looked upon with even more tolerance than the general public and wearing a (what would appear to be) an old west vest and Stetson hat would be smiled upon. The coat was a bridge too far.

The US military, and I suspect any military serious about winning, has a principal, "Fight like you train. Train like you fight."

Not using the coat and the gear I would generally wear meant I was breaking that principal and that made me uncomfortable. I made up a training rig that kept everything in about the same places. The training rig also had to have a lot of spots for shotgun ammo, as that would be well used in the match, but really wasn't part of my battle rig.

Between the shotgun and no coat, I was moving away from my real combat posture substantially. No training is perfect. Unfortunately, I've never heard of a Two Gun match. Maybe I should sponsor one? It might be popular. I'm not the only one who grumbles about shotguns.

The day came and I set out. I gave myself three days to get to the match. It can be driven in one long drive, but I didn't want to get there worn out. I made my way to Cheyenne on the first night. Then Salt Lake City the next night. I used truck stops for showers and toilets as much as possible. Yes, I had an RV with a nice shower and commode, but an RV only carries so much water. Waste it on showers and toilets when you don't need to, and you'll have to waste a lot of time on emptying the wastewater tank and filling the fresh. In turn, the truck stops will give you a free, cleaned just for your use, shower and toilet as a gift for filling one's diesel tank. After a fill up and shower in the morning, one can sit down to a hardy breakfast, not the cheapest or nicest, but very convenient and be on one's way. It was a short day's drive from Salt Lake up to the range. Though it's also some of the emptiest road in the US. I got to the campsite early, the day before the match, and got a good spot. Then I ran into the Speer Mints and there was much laughing and hugging.

Stacy, after hugging me, said, "Oh my god. You've lost so much weight."

Lina checked my arms, "And you've grown some pretty big new guns?"

Stacy then said with a worried suspicious look, "You haven't been messing with steroids have you?"

"No. No cancer and no steroids. Just healthy living." I lied. "I'm sure you'll have the proof of that soon enough."

Seeing someone naked would definitely reveal if there was steroid use, among other things, it tended to have some very negative effects on male genitalia.

The girls giggled in a nervous, naughty way.

We all went to registration together and double checked our registration, got final bits like numbers and confirmed we would be in the same "flight" or group.

The girls came with a tent. We went by and they opened up their locked truck and showed me their gear. I was all very neat and high-tech. I thought my stuff was better, but you never knew when or where you might get a good idea.

The twins liked staying in my more civilized RV. I showed them my new gear. They were very impressed.

"Unfortunately, we can't shoot in the campsite, or you'd be able to experience their silent, recoilless action." I said.

"50 Beo, no recoil, that's hard to believe." Said Stacy.

"You made all new guns from last year, but stayed with, essentially the same type of firearm." Lina said.

Lina's comment was the start of an old conversation. They wanted me to go to what they thought were more practical defensive rounds. They knew my choices were not based on Three Gun competition, but self-defense. For normal human self-defense, 5.56 and 9mm were much better choices than .50 Beo and 10mm. Unfortunately, I needed to defend against things that went bump in the night and had never explained that side of my life to them.

"I know what you think on that, but you'll just have to trust my judgment and accept that I have good reasons that I can't really explain." I replied.

Maybe I should explain some of it to them? If we got ambushed by the forces of evil, they deserved some warning. At the same time, it was hard to convince people of the supernatural. Yes, I could do some neat tricks, but in our days of Industrial Light and Magic, it takes some really serious demonstration to get someone to believe it. My Dad lived with my Mom for over twenty-five years and never believed there was anything supernatural going on, at least he never admitted it. I had never figured out a simple way to explain it.

I started up some preseasoned steaks. Two nice human sized ones for Stacy and Lina and one monster sized one for me. We all had a beer and then switched to fizzy apple juice, something I had hooked them on. I had also warmed some potatoes. Miranda had loaded the fridge with many different potato dishes and other fruit and veggie sides. We had a great dinner. The twins regaled me with stories of great hunts and competitions they had strived in during the last year. I envied them their carefree lifestyle and resolved again not to draw them into my world. Another thing against explaining, if they knew I was in real danger, they'd probably insist on coming home with me to be my security and I wanted it so bad, I didn't think I'd have the will to say "no."

Then we went back to the real king sized bed and I proved I wasn't using steroids. The twins were in amazing physical shape. Some of the best physical trainers in the world had worked them to a razor's edge before and now, if anything, they hadn't lost a step, they had probably gained one. Before being with them had been like trying to drive two Formula One cars at the same time. Fun for a beginning driver like me, but nowhere near their potential. Now, the possibilities opened wide. Based on my previous limits, the girls were trying to be careful with me. Tonight, they were learning they could let themselves go, and go again and I could keep performing. It was a very satisfying evening and the kind of confidence boost one would like to have on the eve of a big competition.

The next morning we woke up early. A big breakfast, athletes need energy to get through a long physical day, and they were off to their tent to get ready and I started pulling myself together. First, I packed a little wheeled cart. Loaded up my guns, ammo, some basic repair tools, a big sandwich for lunch, lots of drinks. Also, a folding chair that strapped on the side to rest between stages. There was also a discreet spot where I kept mags loaded with stage Six. This place was very safe, but you never knew. The Fomor in that warehouse thought the water behind them was safe. Didn't work out well for them. Then I pulled on my vest, some standard pants, new boots and cup. Of course, I wore my "hat." I also wore my gauntlets, they wouldn't stand out much here and this match was notorious for crawling. The vest's shell, part of my competition rig, had mag holders on it in the right spots. I also had extra shotgun shell holders on my belt.

This match would be a major shakedown. I hadn't had a shift in gear this big, maybe ever. I had gotten out to the farm and did some more shooting with Stage Two and the new optic system. Baby and the Glock both had the optic system mounted. Part of the joy of the optic system was that it learned. It would keep track of conditions and where bullets landed getting better at predicting impact as it was used. I put three hundred Stage Twos down range with the rifle. The accuracy was amazing. Before I could get minute of angle accuracy out past nine hundred meters, but that meant slow aimed shots while sitting with a careful rest. Now I could get the same shots standing, kneeling, lying prone and much faster. I also put a couple hundred rounds through the Glock, practicing my accuracy, speed and ability to shift the goggles. Eventually, I'd be able to leave the goggles on all the time, but training to be able to shift away from them smoothly and quickly and still fight effectively was clearly a prudent step. At the end I ran ten stage Six rounds each through Baby and the Glock. There was a lot of new magic and stage Six is heavier than stage One. I was gratified that the new stage Sixes worked extremely well. The last three shots of stage Six with Baby were a heavy duty cinder block, reduced to dust. A watermelon simply detonated. Then the piece de resistance, literally, a superhumanly big block of ballistic gelatin with a very solid steel hide at one hundred meters. The five fifty steel hide shattered and a wound channel of gargantuan proportions was created. I recorded the whole thing in slow-mo from several angles. Simply epic. I'd love to put it on YouTube, but can't for obvious reasons.

There was also the werewolf factor, both physical and mental. How would that impact my performance?

I showed up just a few seconds before the twins to our flight's rally point and we joined our group for the mandatory rules and safety lecture. Then it was on to the stages.

It was a long hard day of shooting from there. Physically, I was almost twice as fast as I had been before. I was about ten percent better with the shotgun, fifty percent better with the Glock and I didn't miss a shot with Baby all day. Yes, the guns ran flawlessly. The twins were in awe of Baby. They each got to shoot her a few times between stages. Stacy did well, but was speechless from the lack of recoil. Lina, over compensated for recoil and hit the dirt about twenty meters away with her first shot. I really couldn't have asked for much more. I was thinking what it would be like when I had the sighting system at a hundred percent.

The twins headed back to their tent to maintenance and lock up their equipment. Lina would take a while. Her race AR had jammed that day and would need a very thorough once over. Then they would come over. I got the risotto in the oven and gave my gear a thorough going over as well. All good.

I cleaned my clothes and gear and put them up for the night. Then I took a quick rinsing shower. The girls showed up, each with a bag of necessaries and used my commode and shower. They came out in short, thin silk kimonos I had prepared for them. That night we feasted on slow roasted brisket that had been prepared by Miranda and started by the timer in my RV's oven. Some sweet wine, salad and risotto made for a great meal followed by ice cream eaten in very unusual ways. The home-made chocolate sauce and whipped cream were very tasty.

After our first bout of ice cream eating, we started going over the day. I had obviously made substantial improvements, but I was still not in Stacy and Lina's class. I had a few small comments, mostly they pointed out my mistakes. I listened humbly. Their advice was literally valuable. 

At one point, Lina said, "Stacy and I noticed your shirt."

I was kind of pleased with my shirt so I said, "Yes." expecting a compliment.

"It's kind of old fashioned." Lina said.

"Well, I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy." I said while thinking to myself, "Other than my super high-tech suite of gear and my willingness to cat around with a long list of women."

"You might want to try something more like this." Lina said getting out of bed and showing me her shirt. It was one of those skin tight, athletic shirts they sold in sporting goods stores. Honestly, I thought the twins wore them as a fashion thing. They were young, beautiful and very fit. Skin tight clothing on them got attention which I'm sure didn't hurt their sponsors' feelings.

"I'm not sure that would fit." I answered in the same tone of voice I might have used if they had suggested competing in women's under things.

"I'm sure they make them in your size. If you watch, you'll see the top male competitors wear a similar shirt." Stacy added.

Lina continued, "They are good for temperature control, they're warm in cold temps and breath in hot temps. They give you protection with minimum resistance. You've probably noticed you're old style shooting shirt bunching in uncomfortable ways."

Oh lord had I noticed.

"I'll look into it when I get back home." I said. They gave me the number of the outfit they thought made the best shirts.

"They'll make you custom stuff if you're willing to pay." Lina added.

The next two days flew by. Incredible shooting during the day, good food and excellent company each night. It's hard to quantify the coaching the twins gave. Essentially, I had been going at stages as my old self with extra horsepower. Now that I was more capable, I needed to start thinking differently about strategy. I didn't need to crawl harder under an obstacle when I could jump over it much faster.

I was also getting more in tune with the wolf. The wolf had perfect focus and absolute will. It didn't think in shades of grey or maybe. Once committed, it would go absolutely. Compared to a wolf, the Terminator is an emo metro sexual.

The last day of shooting came. There was general partying and celebration till around eleven. We were all exhaustedly happy. In the practical group, I hadn't even made the top ten. If I had been in heavy metal, I would have won. The girls and I had a late supper and we had a final night together in the RV. Even exhausted, the girls were young and in remarkable physical condition and, for a night, I was young too.

We woke in the morning. Had some happy sad kisses and hugs. Promised to meet up again soon and went our separate ways.

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	11. Chapter 11

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 11 Another Brick

With the Three Gun match over, I hadn't had a lot of sleep over four days of intense physical activity so I decided to take it easy. I drove down to a truck stop in Salt Lake City. My heart was full, my water tank was empty, and my black water tank was brimming. At the truck stop, I dumped the black water tank, topped off the water in the fresh tank and topped off on diesel which had been getting low. The lot was full. Truck stops fill up fast after five, it's worse on the coasts but even in Salt Lake it can obviously be a problem. I parked in a bad spot and went in and talked with the manager.

We agreed I wasn't going to stay the night. Just get a shower and something to eat, then move on. The honk of money I paid for diesel didn't hurt. The promise to spend more money on their overpriced food won him over.

I got some clean clothes and went to the shower. I took a long sit on the commode and took an hour-long shower. I scrubbed every bit of that talcum powder dirt from my body and felt clean for the first time in days.

Coming out feeling clean and empty was heavenly. I ate a huge meal and got back in my RV. I would have loved to just collapse, but I'd promised to drive on. So, I drove to a Costco on the east side of town, found a quiet corner, and went to sleep. I figured I'd get up late the next day, grab some grub and see how far I could get on my way back to Omaha without pushing it.

I was dead asleep, and something smacked my head into the wall hard. I'd love to say that I'm a real badass and I went to sleep in my full battle gear. That would be a lie. I was in my skivvies. I'd love to say my Jedi awareness had warned me, but it obviously hadn't. Even still, I was instantly awake.

Something had just smacked my RV hard enough to tip it onto it's left side. The side with the big picture window that was now facing the ground. The narrow doors, all on the right side, were now facing straight up to the sky.

I'd watched a lot of fantasy and sci-fi movies as a kid. In those movies it seemed like lots of the main hero characters had a hard time hanging on to things. One movie in particular, Clash of the Titans, the hero gets a magic helmet, shield and sword. He manages to drop and lose all three. He gets the head of Medusa, drops that. He even manages to drop the Pegasus. How do you drop a flying horse?!

I had been scarred. I would not lose my toys.

I had Baby next to me with a full mag of stage Sixes.

I think I learned something at the match. The challenges of the match made me see things differently and more importantly, depend on my stronger body more. The big thing was I was also much more bonded with that wolf inside. Before the match, I would have panicked and started trying desperately to get out one of the doors, crawling up awkwardly. A perfect target. Instead, I took a deep breath, prepared myself for what I knew was coming in a split second, got balanced on the balls of my feet and waited.

It had only been seconds since the first blow, but then came another. The hit knocked the RV over again on to it's roof. A person could have been really knocked around by that hit, but I was in the air having jumped as the blow landed. Then I rolled out the big picture window in what had been the left side but was now the right and also the side whatever was whacking my RV was on. I spotted the thing in a split second and fired.

It wasn't hard to spot, it was huge. It was vaguely humanoid. It was all hunchy. My guess was, if it could stand up straight, it would be at least forty feet tall. It was like the illegitimate love child of that lame dragon in Willow and a Troll from the Lord of the Rings movie. Add a few claws, horns and sharp ridgy bits and you'd have a pretty good idea of what I was facing.

I should have been terrified. I should have run away screaming. But the way my shot, which had hit the thing in the lower right gut staggered it made me feel like we were on even footing. It lifted it's tree trunk right arm which I'm sure it had used to hit the RV to swat me, but the stagger had given me a second. I shot it in it's right shoulder. It was point blank range. The .50 Beo fully blossomed in that shoulder and a huge gush of material flew out back. That hurt it. The right arm immediately dropped to ground. It staggered back and sat down leaning on it's left arm.

That gave me a few seconds. I looked the giant thing over and spotted where it kept it's life, in the upper left-hand chest area.

It was thinking about standing up. I decided to do something really stupid.

I leaned my left shoulder in and charged for all I was worth, which was a lot. My left shoulder hit the thing hard middle of the top of the chest. The thing went over on it's back. I stabbed into with my rifle.

Modern rifles don't much go for bayonets anymore. They have "standoff devices." Essentially a ring of pointy bits at the end of the barrel. Mine were particularly wicked. It punched a hole in the thing's chest. I dropped my rifle, letting the sling hold it, and tore into the critter with my bare hands. The critter didn't like that and started to move again. I picked up my rifle and shot it in the left shoulder then in each hip. That did it. It wasn't going anywhere.

I went back to my RV and got a shovel and my axe. I started cutting into it. The outer six inches was clearly made of some sort of clay. The insides seemed to be made of not particularly well-organized compost. There were animal guts, leaves, twigs, branches, vines, and some sort of animal crap all in various states of decay. This was definitely in the style of my secret admirer.

After digging for a bit in the upper left chest, I found a naked man immersed in the rotting compost, roughly where the heart would be. The whole mud and guts construct body would have served to keep him pinned, like being buried alive. However, there were also vines and sticks all around really pinning him in place. The shovel wouldn't cut them. I took my axe to them, it worked better, but not well. I realized I was not only cutting matter, but the magical energies in the plant matter restraints that didn't want to relinquish their prize.

I saw that I would have to fight fire with fire, so to speak. I had not focused my will to directly apply magical energy in a very long time. I took a few steadying breaths and using my axe as a focus, began to strike, my magical strength striving to break the magic of the tangling vines. I don't think my well was much deeper, but with all the work on the bolts, my will was much better practiced and, leaning on the wolf, my focus was much stronger than it had once been. I still had no real idea what I was doing except trying to break the magic that was already there. At first, I wasn't very effective, but I kept at it. I started to notice, by trial and error, what worked. I could feel that I was actively fighting another intelligence. It was probably stronger than me and better trained than me, but I had leverage. Whatever my adversary was doing, it was doing it from far away, which makes it harder. Secondly, I was using a razor sharp, stainless steel axe head, driven by a pretty strong arm, against strips of plant matter.

Then the first vine snapped. After that it was a matter of time. Each bit gave less and less resistance as my blows became more and more effective. When I broke the last hold, the beast's throat bellowed in a final protest and then clearly the whole construct failed. It was less some sort of monster and more an oddly shaped compost pile.

I dragged the man clear and saw he wasn't breathing. I really didn't want to do mouth to mouth on that filthy mouth. I swept as much crud loose from his mouth with my fingers as I could and then wiped his mouth with a rag. Then I bit the bullet, so to speak, and breathed for him a bit. Then I pushed in his gut like I was doing a horizontal Heimlich. He coughed a few times. Some particularly vile stuff came out of his mouth and he started breathing. I don't have a special magical sleep detector, but he seemed unconscious. The whole thing looked like it could have been crazy traumatic. How long had he been trapped in there? Those stage Sixes pack a wallop of death magic. How much had he got? Maybe he was just playing possum and still a happy slave of the compost mage? I had some twist ties like the police use to bind people cheaply. I put a couple around his wrists and knees and three around the ankles. Then I pulled out some high-test duct tape, the kind with metal strands in it and gave all three spots a good wrap. Then I threw a sheet on him.

Now what?

I pulled out a block and tackle. It's what the military uses to pull vehicles out of ditches. I found a nice solid concrete block in the middle of the parking lot and started wrapping. It took an hour to get everything just so. Then I connected my RV's high-performance winch and she flopped back down on her side. Then some reattaching, and another hour later, she stood up. I put my gear away. I collected some material from the compost heap in jars. I washed my prisoner with a hose. Wrapped him up in a towel and put him in an empty storage bay. I washed myself off with the same hose then got back in the truck.

The RV turned over. Fifteen hours later I was in my driveway in Omaha. I had stopped once for fuel in North Platte, pee'd and got some food. The RV was wrecked, but it could drive, and it got me home.

I called Jake and Miranda. I told them to get everyone to the house including Michael.

I had an outbuilding with a basement. In that basement was a very solid cell with very hard ceramic walls and a door that was not going to give easy. High on the walls of the cell were eye bolts that were very firmly attached. Outside the cell was a small room with a cabinet. Inside the cabinet were chains that would let me chain a variety of different wrists and ankles to the walls in ways that they couldn't reach each other. There was also what I called a dentist chair with very capable built in restraints. There was a water tap and outlets. In the cabinet, there were electrical leads. To leave the small room one passed through another high-security door. Then a flight of stairs. There were charges set in roof of the stairs. The charges would make noise if they went off sealing something in that cell. There were charges that would also go off on an exposed natural gas pipeline about a quarter mile from my place in some swampy woods where people would rarely go. That would cover the noise on my property. The cell would be buried twenty feet down under a very heavy concrete and steel building.

I had built the room, not expecting to use it, but as a precaution. I didn't know how to use the torture equipment, except in general theory. I did know where to go to find out more. When you do a Google search, it only looks at maybe, five percent of the internet. There are unchartable depths to the internet that are secure simply by the virtue of the fact that most would never know where to look to find anything. Every major government on Earth has done studies on and practiced torture at some point, some much more than others. You might be surprised which was which. If one knows where to look, one can read the studies, conclusions and instructions of the best. I knew where they were, I hadn't looked yet.

I put the man in the cell and locked him in as he was. He didn't seem conscious.

As I was coming up, Jake, Kelly and Michael arrived. I put Kelly and Michael in my safe room with the girls. I took Jake over to the RV and showed him.

"They jumped me just outside of Salt Lake. For all I know, they're about to come over the walls. Are you ready?"

Jake's features set in a way I had never seen before.

"I'm ready." He said, holding his bat.

"Then help me unload." I answered.

I had fifteen hours to think about the attack, what I should do next and not much else as the stereo and the phone charger didn't work and so many windows were broken, I couldn't have heard anything if they did. The safety of my trip had been based on a number of assumptions which had clearly proven untrue. I had been lucky. They had clearly sent something so big and nasty they were sure it could handle me. I was happy to prove them wrong, so the assumptions had made asses of us both. That said, it meant no more Three Gun matches until this was done and those matches were a major training opportunity for me. It was a serious strategic loss.

If they were surveilling me, they would have known ahead of time I was going somewhere with my RV. They would have had a hard time setting up on the way out, as they would have no idea which way I was going at eighty miles an hour. That was actually a little comforting. If their intelligence had been good enough, if they could monitor my communications, had a good history, etc., they could have jumped me on the way out. That's when I would have done it, before I got a three-day crash course on shooting and fighting in weird situations. When I got where I was going, they got four days to set up. I suppose I could have taken a different route home, but I was lazy. I wanted to be home sooner rather than later, another route would have taken two or three more days. They planned on me going straight home and I obliged. I got to a nice quiet deserted spot, gave them a few hours to set up and bang.

That was all based on a single premise. Were they surveilling me? I carefully put on all my battle gear, left Baby on her strap and took out my shotgun. I loaded the shotgun with my competition choice, a round with two sizes of pellet, double aught buckshot and, packed in around the larger pellets, size four. I filled a convenient shoulder satchel with about a hundred rounds more.

Jake and I walked to a quiet spot on the wall-line. I handed Jake the shotgun and the satchel and said, "Carry these."

I set off the car alarm on the RV which involved flashing lights and about eight times as much noise as a car. Then Jake jumped over the wall with the shotgun. Jake made it look easy, which was convenient, but depressing, to me. I followed cradling Baby. I landed on the toes of my left foot on the top of the bricks and gave myself another push and cleared the wall, landing with a bit of grace on the other side. The important thing was that it was quick and quiet.

Jake handed me back my shotgun and satchel and took up his bat. I turned off the alarm then made sure I had a round chambered and we went for a walk.

I had explained to Jake that we were going for a walk around the perimeter.

"What's a perimeter?" Jake asked.

I sighed and explained. I figured the Compost Mage had something keeping an eye on my place. Jake was the better tracker. His job was to hunt down anything out of the normal, in particular keeping his eyes and nostrils open for anything with Compost Mage's foul stench. Of course, I would keep my eyes open too. On our first circuit we, and by we I mean Jake, spotted two crows and an owl. At each, I triggered the RV alarm, then took it out with one shot. The birds were definitely not real birds. I doubted they could fly. But they definitely had the stink and they definitely came apart like constructs, not birds. We did several more circuits but found nothing else. We went back in through the gate. We had been surveilled.

I called Dark Glass and had them put a three-man team around my house twenty-four seven doing counter surveillance. They would report if they saw anyone sniffing about the place. There was also a stipulation that they could be converted to an armed rescue force on request.

With the RV fully unloaded and the Compost Mage's surveillance greatly curtailed. I had the girls watch Michael while I collected up Kelly and Jake and we went to the basement.

On the steps outside the outer security door, we stopped for a talk.

"Kelly, I think you understand by now that Jake and I are not normal people?" I started.

"Yeah, I noticed. Jake should never have been able to heal that fast and even as built as he is, he's stronger than a person should be." She answered.

"How do you know I'm stronger…" Jake began.

"Even stacked guys don't pick up solid wood chests of drawers, still loaded, with one hand and then carry them up a flight of steps." She answered.

"Oh." Jake said.

"Our abilities are not a secret from Kelly." I said and Jake looked relieved.

"Are you like Jake?" She asked.

"Somewhat, but not as strong. I also have other abilities." I answered.

"Like what?" She asked looking interested.

"I have limited magical abilities as well." I answered.

"So, you two are like characters in a comic book?" She asked brightly.

"Very minor characters." I answered.

"People like us," I continued, "exist in the normal world but also have to exist in our own world. There are no laws in that world, frequently the strong prey on the weak. You may remember me warning you about being in Jake's and my life."

"Is that what's going on now?" Kelly asked.

"Yes. We are having a disagreement with someone I now call the 'Compost Mage.'" I answered.

"Like you go mess with some of his stuff and he messes with your RV?" She asked, trying to get a handle on the situation.

"More like, he tries to kill us or worse, and we barely survive." I answered.

"How serious is this, are we just talking some play? Some woo woo magic?" She asked.

"You dug the bullets out of Jake. It's that serious. One of his people did that." I answered.

"So why don't you track him down and kill him?" She asked quite reasonably.

"Several reasons really. First, we have no idea who and where he is. I'm taking steps to try and figure it out, but he tends to act through agents. Secondly, there's nothing to say that if we did figure out where he was and went, that he wouldn't just smack us down." I answered.

"You said 'worse' what could be worse than death?" She continued still getting a handle on the situation.

"In normal life, there are fates worse than death, but not so many. In our world, there are many fates worse than death. The thugs he had who shot Jake, I later realized were people who had been encased in mud and forced to do his bidding. I didn't realize that at the time. I think most people would rather be dead then be so enslaved. If I can, if I run into more such people, I would like the chance to rescue them." I said.

"Well that sounds noble. Can't you just run away?" She answered.

"Where would I go? A lot of my strength is bound up here in this place. It's taken years to build the shops, labs and defenses which make this place and make me stronger here. A shack in the woods? An apartment in the big city under an assumed name? Who's to say he wouldn't track me there and take me all the more easily? Jake does have options. Does she know what you are Jake?" I asked.

"Umm, I've never said it." Jake answered.

"Why not? What are holding out from me?" Kelly asked in a tone that sounded equal parts angry and hurt.

"I'm kind of ashamed. I worried if you knew, you wouldn't want me." Jake answered downcast.

That got Kelly's attention.

"I told you about what my Dad did to me. Did that make you want me less?" She asked, it seemed to me with equal parts trepidation and comfort.

"No. Not at all. If anything, it just makes me want to protect you more!" Jake answered fiercely.

Kelly looked a bit relieved.

"Then you can tell me." She answered.

"Okay. You may not like this," then Jake paused for a moment gathering his courage, "but I'm a werewolf." Jake just managed to get out.

"No way." Kelly said. "Like changes into a wolf and howls at the moon. Like wolfman?"

"Yes, changes into a wolf. Not sure about howling. Not like wolfman. Changing into a wolf is where I go those nights. Not partying." Jake answered.

"Oh. Oh, that's cool." Kelly replied as some pieces found their way to new positions in her mind. Then she asked, "Does it catch? Can you bite people and they become wolves too?" Kelly asked a little excitedly.

"I don't think it works that way." Jake answered.

"I was on a trip in my RV. On the way home, I got jumped by one of the Compost Mage's boys. Luckily, I survived. I have the guy, hopefully still alive, on the other side of this door. He's been out cold since the fight, or about twenty-four hours. Several possibilities now present themselves. He may still die. He may live, but still be a willing ally of this mage. In which case I don't know what we'll do. He may still be under the mage's control. He might be grateful to be rescued. Obviously, I hope for the latter. I want you to give him medical treatment Kelly, but I want you to realize the dangers and understand the precautions I'm taking. If this guy knows something, he could help us. Knowing where this mage is hiding could be the key to all of our survival now." I said.

"There's just one thing I don't understand." Kelly began, "Why are you so nice to Jake. Isn't he a threat to you too?"

I could tell that surprised Jake.

"I suppose if Jake wanted to harm me, he could. I'm not worried about that because I don't believe Jake wants to harm me and I don't intend to do anything in the future to change that. Also, I'm very fond of Jake. I'm nice to him because I want to be. Lastly, from a selfish perspective, Jake is an ally. As I mentioned earlier, unusual people like Jake and me live in a dangerous world. We're little fish with bigger, more dangerous fish each level down and the ocean has no bottom. Together we are much stronger than apart. All that said, if Jake wanted to leave today, that would be his choice and I would wish him well. Unlike the Compost Mage I don't want anyone around because they feel blackmailed or controlled. If you don't want to go in that room, don't. I will continue helping you. If you don't want my help, stop taking it. If you want to leave, leave. I will not retaliate or try and harm you in any way. I want help and I want friends, my life may depend on it, but I won't turn anyone into a slave to get it." I said.

My speech was long, and it took Kelly a few minutes to digest it then she said, "Fine, I'll see what I can do."

I checked the video feed from the cell while Kelly went and got her medical supplies. I'd been having her buy up medical supplies she thought might be useful for a while. We now had quite the well-stocked infirmary. Holly brought a bucket of hot water and some washcloths. My prisoner hadn't moved since I dumped him in the cell. I went in with Jake. We brought him out of the cell and laid him face down on the floor. I took the warm water bucket and some washcloths and washed his back as carefully as I could. I then let Jake put him in the dentist chair. I carefully cut his bonds while Jake stayed ready with his bat. Then as each limb came free, I attached them to the chair's restraints. Then I went to work on him with the warm water and washcloths again. He had been inside a mound of poop and worse for a long time. Once again, this time on the front, I got most of the skin that was showing clean, but I wasn't going to let him up to go further. Also, he had long hair and a long beard which could only get so clean with the tools available and I wasn't bringing in a razor just for looks.

Kelly came back and wrinkled her nose at his smell, did some checking like pulse and blood pressure. Then she set up an IV. While she did that and Jake stayed ready with the bat, I took a good long look at the guy for the first time. He was of medium height and weight, Caucasian, in pretty good physical condition, though he looked like he had just gone through a bad time. He had brown hair and well calloused hands. I then decided to have a long hard look at him magically. He seemed human, but definitely not mundane and definitely not like a wizard, but he had something. I was looking for where he kept his life when I noticed on his head a dark, cold octopus-like spiritual entity.

I immediately said, "Everyone out right now."

No one had to hear me say it twice and we were in the stairwell behind the security door nice and quick.

"Wait here." I said.

I went and got a torch from one of my shops and was back in less than five minutes. I went in the room and lit the torch. It gave me a steady, high temperature flame. I drew my axe from where I kept it on my coat and ran the flame back and forth for several minutes till my blade was red hot. In magic, I have found that the opposite is generally a weakness. Wet is vulnerable to dry. Cold is vulnerable to heat and vice versa. The entity was definitely dark, cold and wet. My axe was now very bright and red hot. Then I got in position, drew up power, focused it through the axe, and swiped down on the entity with both hands. My axe went through the space the creature was in, but more importantly, through the creature spiritually. It had been a fight removing the man from the mound, this was much more personal. This octopus was a direct extension of the caster and I could feel the pain I inflicted on him as the axe destroyed the entity.

Take that you son of bitch.

The one swipe was all it took. The octopus was gone.

I was no medical genius, but I could tell the guy was feeling better immediately. He was still out but it seemed more like he was asleep. His color and breathing both clearly improved.

I brought in Kelly and Jake.

"What the hell was that?" Kelly asked.

"I saw something magical was hurting him. I didn't know if it could jump off or divide or what else it might do, so I had us evac. I destroyed it with the axe. I think he looks better." I answered.

Kelly checked him again and said, "He does seem marginally better."

I sent them on their way and sat down with my newest guest while he slept. I sent a note to Miranda to have some broth ready.

I started working with Brenda on the software, picking up what she had been doing for the last week while I was away. She had made good progress.

I contacted the outfit that made the shirts. They didn't want to come do custom shirts even for money. They wanted me to buy off the rack. One of my clients called them, the one that owned a large part of the company and suddenly they were very happy to come for a now reduced offer. I set an appointment for the next week.

While my guest was still sleeping and defenseless, I inserted a mental shunt for myself in his head. Then I fell asleep in the crappy office chair.

A few hours later I snapped awake to see the man on the table moaning and rolling a bit. I got up, went to him and gave him a shake.

"Wha, where am I?" The man moaned.

"You're in my home, safe, in Omaha." I answered.

"Oh," he replied and then passed out.

I had Miranda bring my food and leave it on the steps. I ate, slept and worked remotely with Brenda on the sighting system. Kelly came back every so often to change out the IV. The man would stir every few hours ask a question or two and then pass out again.

Four days later, the man woke up somewhat lucid.

"Wha, where am I?" he asked again.

"You're in my home, safe, in Omaha." I answered.

"Who're you?" he said.

"I'm Doctor Fox." I answered.

"How'd I get here?" he asked.

"I was hoping you could answer that. What's the last thing you remember?" I asked.

"I was on a skip trace near Missoula, the roads were shut down due to snow. I was in a small town. I got a hotel room and a shower. Then I went to the bar for a drink, a bite to eat and see if there was anything good. I met a girl, Cassie, she came back with me to my room, but on the way, bang, lights out. Then I woke up here." He told me.

"I think you're leaving something out." I said.

"The rest is too crazy. It couldn't have been real." He answered.

"Tell me about it." I said firmly.

"I remember being trapped in a box for a while. Then I was in a place I didn't recognize. I must have been on acid or had a real bad concussion, because the whole memory is so wobbly." He told me, clearly uncomfortable.

"Go on." I said.

"This is where it gets crazy, they were covering me is some sort of hot plaster. It hurt, bad, not just the burning, something else, it was just really wrong. Then they got to my face. I was screaming." He told me, obviously with some effort, like he was fighting something.

"Did you see anything about the place where that happened? Do you know where it happened?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. It was industrial. It smelled bad." He answered.

"Could you find the place again?" I asked.

"Maybe." He answered.

"Do you remember anything else?" I asked.

"I remember being tied up in what seemed like a mound of mud and trash. Then they filled in the mound. Like they were burying me alive. I was trying to scream, and I couldn't." He said.

"Anything else?" I probed.

"Just waking up here." He answered.

"Well, you're in a safe place now. Are you hungry?" I asked.

"Yes." He answered.

I had Miranda bring the bowl of broth and leave it outside the door.

"I think I know what happened to you. For the time being, you're safe." I said, then asked, "What's your name?"

"Travis Horn." He answered.

"What are you Travis Horn? I know you're not a normal person. You have some sort of gift." I asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He said in the worst bluff ever.

"Please don't be coy." I answered.

I could tell he didn't want to answer me, and he was weighing his options. Then he finally said, "I'm a Hunter."

You could hear the capital H.

"A Hunter?" I answered, puzzled.

"Anyone can go in the woods with a rifle and shoot at animals. I'm from a line of Hunters. It's hard to explain what I do. What I am. I can see tracks other people can't, notice clues others miss, find what others can't find." He tried to explain.

"That sounds very interesting." I answered. "Is that how you think you can find that place, by hunting it down?" I asked.

"Yes." He answered.

"Do you want to?" I asked.

"Yes, and maybe no." He answered.

"What do you want to do when you get there?" I asked.

"Kill every damn one of them." He answered.

I got up and walked across the room and unlocked the restraints. It didn't matter much, he wasn't going anywhere. I fed him the bowl of soup. Opening his mouth and swallowing were about all he could handle. Then he fell asleep again.

After a bit more nursing, I had an ambulance come and move him to a rehab place near 132nd and Dodge. My friend Jim the lawyer volunteered there a lot and said it was good. Jake and I would visit every day.

I had Jim do his thing with Travis' identity. We got him a new copy of his driver's license and birth certificate. Got a passport on order. Jim tracked down the motel where Travis had been jumped and determined it was in Putnam, Montana. The hotel still had Travis' bag and they would UPS it to us at my expense. Travis had disappeared from the hotel almost two years prior, in the middle of a snowstorm. People thought he had got drunk and fell asleep in a snow bank somewhere. Travis' jeep had been towed by the local police, stored for six months and auctioned, not paying all fees.

Travis was doing well with his therapy. He was happy to get his bag. It was a small leather bag with some underwear, a couple shirts and some toiletries.

"They sold my Jeep!" He came as close to yelling as he could.

"Sorry. That's what we found out. You've been away for almost two years." I answered.

"Two years!" He said.

"Yes two." I confirmed.

"My good rifle was in that Jeep. My pistol, knife, jacket, all gone." He looked really unhappy thinking about those losses.

I let him lie there for a minute.

"What about my house?" He asked.

"Your house?" I asked.

"My house is outside Chandler, MO. It's not much, a cabin on some hilly, scrubby land, but it's mine. I own it outright. I paid taxes ahead. But that was two years ago." He said.

I got some more details and Jim tracked the cabin down. The cabin was on the brink of foreclosure for unpaid taxes and utility bills. I paid everything up. Then I had a local contractor go and check on the place. He took pictures. Sent them up. The place was intact but needed some help. I paid to have the exterior grounds cleaned up and re-gravel the driveway.

I went back to Travis to review.

"You paid the taxes?" He asked.

"Yes." I answered.

"Much obliged. I'll pay you back when I can." He answered.

"No problem. There's no hurry. Just get better. We have an industrial facility to hunt." I answered.

*** And now a word from our sponsor! ***

Please don't miss that this is the first exciting book in a series. This book is followed by Warlock of Omaha Squared and Warlock of Omaha Cubed, both also on this site!

If you enjoy Star Wars and my writing, you may also enjoy a series of three Star Wars novels I have written, all called Legend of the Harp!

This writer, like the story teller in the market of old, now has a hat out hoping for a small gratuity. There is no obligation and I'm grateful you took a moment to read. However, if my writing has found favor in your eyes, please take a moment to go to:

Pay

Pal

.me

/hemaccabe

and throw in a little something, a dime, a quarter, a dollar, etc.

While I love to write, I do have a spouse and a child and a job and many other claims on my time that don't understand why I would spend so many hours banging on a keyboard. A small tangible return would help smooth the way to allow me to provide many more stories.

Please help. Thank-you.


	12. Chapter 12

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 12 Slow Burn

After twenty-four hours, life had to go, somewhat, back to normal. Everyone went home and to school.

I had Jed come and take the RV to the dealership and see what he could get for it. It wasn't much, but there were still a lot of working parts and pieces in it so it's value wasn't zero. After I got the dealer's bid, Jed actually offered me $100 more and I sold it to him. Jed wanted a nice RV, had the land to store it and the shop facilities to fix it. Just because the fridge had landed on it's face, and it's finish was now smudged and the floor scraped, didn't bother him since it still worked. Most of the damage was cosmetic and to the body. Jed's body shop would bang it out when it had nothing better to do.

I had a plan sitting on the books which I had never seen fit to execute, but now would. I called a custom RV maker I had been working with and told them to go. We had developed a plan for something that would look like a one-piece Airstream. It would have very powerful diesel and electric motors. The base would be slabs of batteries ala Tesla and the roof would have a kind of sprayed on solar panel that would be able to power it and recharge the batteries wherever I camped. She would still have a diesel generator, but more isolated so I wouldn't have to smell the fumes. She would have side cans for diesel like a semi that could take 400 gallons of payload. The pretty sausage shaped aluminum body would be very strong and then would be steel reinforced and would have large curved slabs of my best vehicle armor. The armor would also make nice sound deadening material and insulation. The body would also have plenty of sprayed in polyurethane so she would be a true four-season animal. Based on new hard-won experience, the RV would have sensor points with cameras and motion sensors. If someone tried to jump me in an empty lot again, hopefully I'd have a bit of warning.

The interior was NOT going to be super lavish. My primary goals were comfort, ease of cleaning and durability in that order. The driver's seat and passenger would be very comfortable and behind them would be some captain's seats if I needed to move in a group. There would be a bunk above the driver. There would be a full-size king bed in the rear, but on a raised platform that would let me have a small toy hauler in the rear. There would be a large bathroom with a large shower. Unlike my previous RV that had full sized kitchen appliances and a large common area, I would shrink down that space. A small galley, a couch/table and a TV. That would let me make the vehicle shorter and handier overall. The biggest change would be super large clean water and black water tanks. They would cut into underbody storage, but I could live with that.

AEV, the outfit that made my custom Jeep truck, was consulting. They had thoughts about creating an RV line and this would let them test out some ideas. Another outfit, Bowlus, that had been making aluminum sausage shaped RVs since before Airstream would not be contributing a body but would be contributing internal fixtures as they made some very nice, very light weight, very strong aluminum stuff.

I had a few other nice details I won't bore you with except to say that it was at least a year away. Large scale custom work is expensive and takes time, which meant I would be without RV for at least a year. It hadn't seemed worthwhile when I had the old RV, but now it was.

The RV plan coming off the books begged a second question, my shotgun. Recent activities had shown that it still had merit. My thinking had been it was no longer a primary defensive arm so spending big time on it was a waste. I still had my Marine and it worked well. I was emotionally attached to my 870 for several reasons. It was my first serious weapon. As long as I used it, I could pretend, at least to myself, I was in the heavy metal division of three gun. That protected my ego more than it should in the same way I wanted a trophy more than I should.

In idle moments, I had already thought through several upgrade paths. The US military had recently adopted the M4. Saiga had a great AK-based shotgun. There's the AA-12 that I don't have in my deep safe. Lastly, the best and most time-expensive, building a Tavor-shotgun. The fact that the upgrade path wasn't clear didn't help make me want to do it more.

I realized that Three Gun trophies were not my goal. Survival was my goal. That meant practical. There might be circumstances where a shotgun was the best option, so it behooved me to have a good one. That meant starting work on a Tavor-shotgun, or, as I had already christened it, "Big Baby."

As the Tavor is essentially a bullpup AK, it would have a lot in common with the Saiga, so I stole Saiga's design drawings and started CAD work.

Brenda and I finished work on the optics software. I could toggle back and forth between a short-range solution where it would show me where I was aiming at any given moment and I would pull the trigger and a long-range solution where I would designate a target and the firearm would shoot itself when I got it aimed right. It was reasonably stable. We would keep working to refine and stabilize it further, but the basic idea was done.

We rigged up a practice system in the den. The TV would act as the goggles and we had rigged up a simu-rifle and pistol. We had stolen the code from an old video game called "Hogan's Alley." We improved the game so it would randomize targets so you couldn't try and sit on patterns. I did a lot of practicing and it turns out the girls loved it. Brenda was the champ, but Diane and Miranda were pretty good too. Holly liked to play more than she was skilled, but she was fun to watch play. Mostly, it was a great test bed for Brenda to find errors and bad patches in the code and then go work on beating out better builds of the software.

The shirt people came out. Jake and I got scanned so they could make shirts custom for us. We also got to design our shirts so that was cool. My shirts would have large flowing stripes of green and blue over black. I would have a cool "JF" logo monogrammed on the upper left chest. Jake chose red and brown and used an old Jim Beam logo for his monogram. I also got myself a couple dozen boxer briefs designed to take a cup from the same manufacturer. They were substantially more comfortable than my current arrangement.

The Compost Mage was out there somewhere. He was preparing his next move and I was sitting around buying boxer briefs. So no, I wasn't very relaxed.

My mood wasn't helped by the fact that Holly graduated and was getting ready to go take a job in Guam helping set up a major new resort. The smart thing would be for me to find Holly's replacement, have some fun. Recruit her. Then have Holly teach her the ropes, but my heart wasn't in it. It's one thing when everything seems clear as a bell, but knowing I was living under the hammer, that any moment compost giants could start swarming over the walls to crush, kill or worse everyone within, I wasn't that selfish.

Further, I was still confused by my conversation with Cassie. I was keeping it in the background, but the questions were getting louder, not quieter. It's conceivable that someone like Brenda or Miranda might be someone I'd decide to settle down with. But the girl I brought in to be the maid, let's face it, she was there to clean and for fun. Holly had been a lot of fun. I'm sure I could find another fun girl to take over for Holly, but I was realizing, I wanted something more than fun.

I pulled out my compost jars and started trying to figure out how to do a tracking spell. I had no idea how to do a tracking spell and no one I could think to ask how. I kept pecking at it, hoping for inspiration that never came. There's a lot about magic that just isn't simple or intuitive. My lack of tuition was rearing it's ugly head.

At this frustrated point, a strange messenger showed up at my door. A man wearing a contemporary suit got out of a locally hired town car and rang the bell on my fence. I assumed it was something from DiAngelo, so I came down carefully.

When I got to the fence, I looked at the very vanilla guy up and down. Then did the same with my veil piercing magical sight. He still looked the same. The look was too unnaturally vanilla though, so I had to assume a veil better than my sight. How comforting.

"Hello," I asked through the fence, "How can I help you?"

"Dr. Fox?" He replied.

"Yes." I answered.

"I have a message for you." He said and handed me a very nice-looking letter through the fence. It looked like a fancy wedding invitation.

I took the message through the fence and read it, wondering if DiAngelo was inviting me to someone's wedding. I opened the letter and it read:

"At this moment Mr. Guna is available to teach a basic lesson on forge craft. He would come to your home and stay for six months. If you would like to invite Mr. Guna to your home, there would be a fee of $ . Wiring instructions are included, your funds will represent a positive reply.

Sincerely,

Mr. Honi."

I looked up to say something to the messenger, but he was gone.

I looked at the letter and read it again, then headed up to my study. The writing was in cursive. I couldn't tell if it had been hand-written or printed.

I called Holly on the way and told her to get the garret to super clean, new sheets, shampoo the carpets, every square inch washed twice.

"This is extremely important, get Diane and Miranda to help." I finished.

When I got to my study, I brought up my accounts. The amount mentioned in the message was substantially more than $100. It represented a significant percentage of my net worth. I didn't generally keep that much available liquid. I started calling and messaging my bankers to move funds to a designated account. I wanted the amount in the offer, enough to comfortably cover ongoing costs and large chunk of liquid cash ready as I had an idea that there might be other expenses along the way. I didn't seriously consider saying "no" as this would be a once in a lifetime opportunity. In five minutes, they had revolutionized the way I imbue magic. What might they teach me in six months? It was the kind of magical tutelage I had dreamed of. No matter how much I paid, I couldn't believe this did not imply they were seriously considering me for at least AN iron Jed position. The possibility of some sort of serious affiliation and the security that might come from that was on the table. They must have liked my bolts.

If one wants to move a huge amount of money as quickly as possible in the modern financial system, one uses an instrument called a "wire." Despite what you might think, the ability to move funds instantly, particularly in large volumes, doesn't really exist. Wires actually take about a day to get somewhere and be available in the target account. I was converting funds from investments to liquid cash and having the cash wired from several accounts to a single internal account, from which I would then wire the funds to the Svartalves. It would take at least one day, maybe two. I wasn't worried, I'm sure the Svartalves knew how money worked and that even the most enthusiastic reception to their offer would take a few days. Sending a wire is fairly simple, one needs a routing number, an account number and for international wires, a SWIFT code. The SWIFT code for the Svartalves' account showed it was located in a bank on the Isle of Wight, a well-known tax haven that made it's money from helping rich people avoid paying their fair share of taxes. It was also normal, though not a requirement, to have a short, written message added to a wire. I had two days to agonize over it. Eventually I came up with:

"I am very grateful for this opportunity. If Mr. Guna has any special requirements or diet, please let me know and I will make a sincere effort to accommodate him."

I agonized repeatedly over each word. I had to be doubly careful. In relationships between magical groups, hospitality was next to godliness. Failure to be perceived as providing good hospitality could create a permanent wedge between us. Secondly, as nice as the Svartalves had been behaving, they were still transactional fairies. If I wrote something simple like, "I will accommodate it." That would be binding as far as they were concerned and if Mr. Guna wanted something that was more expensive than I could provide, like his weight in gold each day, or something I just couldn't acquire, like say, the life's blood of the queen of cold, then the Svartalves would likely consider it a violation of a written contract for which they might expect all sorts of unpleasant restitution, like my life. There were matters of security involved, the Svartalves couldn't have it getting about that they tolerated violations of written contracts, examples would have to be made.

It ended up taking two days to assemble the necessary funds. I spent a lot of time running and working with Jake. We also spent a lot of time working on math, with diligent effort he was making good progress. In time, he could be getting to a GED.

I held a special meeting and explained what was happening to my household with Kelly and Jake. The girls didn't really understand the magic stuff, so I left that out for them. I spent some extra time with Kelly and Jake.

"So, this is important?" asked Jake summing up about twenty minutes of lecturing drone.

"Yes, this is important. If they consider me part of their household, they would be inclined to help defend us. If we ran afoul of another magic power, the other power would likely be less aggressive knowing we were associated with the Svartalves. Lots of stuff that might just snap us up like a large mouth bass eating a bug, will steer clear. It wouldn't be a perfect shield or panacea, we'd still need to be able to protect ourselves, but it is a chance for some real security." I answered.

"So, what can we do to help?" Kelly asked.

"I'm not sure yet but be very understanding. As long as Mr. Guna is here, he has to be my first priority. Steer clear if you can. You never know what might offend him or make him decide that you just offered him Michael in exchange for a bag of magic beans." I said.

"Well that does it for me. We won't be coming round till this is done. You know where to find us and get a hold of us if you need us. Let us know when the coast is clear." Kelly said quite sensibly.

I took time with the girls to get on my hands and knees and scrub in the garret. Every appliance was moved and the space behind was scoured. Inside every cabinet and closet was washed down. Every utensil was pulled out, washed meticulously, as the space inside was cleaned. I think the girls really started taking it seriously when I started helping. I ended up buying a new mattress and box spring as well as a second round of new sheets. I tried to consider no level of clean too clean.

I sent the wire and three days later Mr. Guna rang my doorbell.

*** And now a word from our sponsor! ***

Please don't miss that this is the first exciting book in a series. This book is followed by Warlock of Omaha Squared and Warlock of Omaha Cubed, both also on this site!

If you enjoy Star Wars and my writing, you may also enjoy a series of three Star Wars novels I have written, all called Legend of the Harp!

This writer, like the story teller in the market of old, now has a hat out hoping for a small gratuity. There is no obligation and I'm grateful you took a moment to read. However, if my writing has found favor in your eyes, please take a moment to go to:

Pay

Pal

.me

/hemaccabe

and throw in a little something, a dime, a quarter, a dollar, etc.

While I love to write, I do have a spouse and a child and a job and many other claims on my time that don't understand why I would spend so many hours banging on a keyboard. A small tangible return would help smooth the way to allow me to provide many more stories.

Please help. Thank-you.


	13. Chapter 13

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 13 Forging Ahead

At seven AM!

My notebook beeped that the doorbell had gone off. I assumed it was FedEx, they show up early sometimes. I clicked on my notebook to review the gate cam. It was Mr. Guna!

"Oh Shit!" I yelled and ran out the house pulling on a shirt and pants. I didn't bother with shoes. As I ran down to the fence, I thought about how I probably should have had Diane working on landscaping as Mr. Guna would probably notice every errant leaf and twig.

I got to the fence, opened it and bowed, "Welcome to my home Mr. Guna."

"Please show me to my quarters, it has been a long trip. Please see to my bags." Mr. Guna replied.

Mr. Guna was not overly emotive. His facial expression, the way he stood, nothing changed. His hands never moved except with absolute economy of motion. Somehow, his emotional state was always clear. Now he was impatient.

The way Mr. Guna had said, "Please see to my bags." Hadn't been in a tone that sounded like polite request, but more like what one would say to a servant.

Mr. Guna had a full-size steamer trunk and a number of other cases. I hit a panic button on my cell that would summon Jake.

Jake was there, bless his heart, in just five minutes. Between the two of us we manhandled the trunk and piled the other luggage on top.

I then awkwardly led Mr. Guna up the driveway to the garret apartment. I helped Jake wrestle the steamer trunk up the steps then let Jake get the rest of the luggage.

Mr. Guna looked around the apartment and sniffed again. It seemed to say, "I'm camping in the filthy wilderness."

So much for our cleaning efforts.

"Are you hungry? Is there something I can offer you to eat?" I asked.

"No." Mr. Guna answered.

Do you want some time to refresh yourself after your trip?" I asked.

"Yes." Mr. Guna answered.

"I will go and dress and meet you downstairs when you're ready." I said and showed him the internal door that led to the garage.

"That is acceptable." Mr. Guna answered.

"Please let me know if there is anything I can provide to make you more comfortable." I offered.

"I will." Mr. Guna answered.

Jake took a few trips and got the rest of the bags up while Mr. Guna and I talked.

I sent Jake home after giving him my thanks and a hug. Then I went back to my rooms and got showered and dressed. I was watching the camera in the garage where Mr. Guna would come down, but I guess he was settling in.

I have a desk and a terminal in the garage. I had Miranda bring me breakfast there. I ate and read the paper. Then I got up and started cleaning. My garage is pretty neat, especially by garage standards, but there's always tools that could be put away, sweeping, wiping and polishing.

I had just finished lunch when Mr. Guna came down.

I got up and put my tray by the door to the house where Miranda would pick it up and came back.

"Are you hungry now? Is there food I can offer you?" I asked.

"No. Show me your facilities." He said, nominally a request, but clearly an order.

I showed Mr. Guna around the garage. He nodded. We walked to each out building. I showed him my shops and labs. He nodded. I didn't show him each corner, like say my deep safe or my holding room, but he got a clear sense of the tooling and facilities I had available.

We returned to the garage and Mr. Guna sat at the desk and brought up the internet. He was kind enough to let me stand behind his shoulder. We spent the afternoon visiting various suppliers online. Mr. Guna would pick various items from various suppliers and say, "Buy that."

I would lean over and complete the transaction. By five that afternoon, I had spent over a hundred grand and was exhausted.

Mr. Guna looked at me and said "I will now retire to my rooms. Be prepared in the morning at a reasonable hour."

Then Mr. Guna ascended the stairs to the garret and locked himself in.

Mr. Guna would be there for six months. Never saw him eat. Never saw him sleep.

I was exhausted so it was easy to eat and get an early bedtime. I was up the next morning at five, dressed, had breakfast and was waiting in the garage by six.

Mr. Guna came down a bit after six.

"You were here at a reasonable time this morning. We will be working here for the next few days. Before I come down, please wash the floor."

"Okay." I said.

"Okay?" Mr. Guna answered, but with a questioning tone.

"Very okay?" I said a bit confused.

Mr. Guna seemed to understand my confusion and said, "While I am here, I am in the role of your teacher. The proper mode of address is 'Master.'"

"Oh." I said. Then added, "Master."

There was some part of me that bristled at calling someone else "Master" at all, much less in my own home. Luckily, I had been in various forms of martial arts for a long time. I had never been bothered by calling the teachers "Sensei" or "Sifu." Both meant "Master" in their own language. Smiths who taught had been "Masters" for millennia. Clearly Mr. Guna was here in the role of teaching master and I was the student or apprentice.

"We will begin with breathing." Mr. Guna started.

Mr. Guna had me stand in a position I was familiar with from martial arts, my feet slightly spread, knees slightly bent and my hands on hips. Then we breathed. Doesn't sound hard? Thirteen hours later we finished for the day. I can't remember ever being as bone tired. Mr. Guna was having me breathe deep and develop a new rhythm. He had a long rod and anytime my breathing shifted, or my attention wandered, whack. It was not a gentle reminder tap.

I took my bruised body to bed. I ate a bit, washed and collapsed.

I was up the next morning and mopping by six. Mr. Guna came down at ten after and we began again.

After five days, the rhythms of new breathing had become normal and I was starting to feel like I was getting a handle on it. Part of me was wondering, "I paid how much for a lot for breathing classes?" Another part was realizing that with the new breathing, my concentration was much sharper and my muscles, which ached each night, were getting more solid and able to hold a pose. Each night I would barely have energy to eat and sleep. I tried to pay attention to other matters, but things drifted.

After five days the things we had ordered began to show up at the shop. There was a lot of room in my garage since the RV no longer lived there. As each piece would show up, Mr. Guna would point to where he wanted me to put it and I would set it up. Tools, forges, anvils, quench tanks and endless other expensive metal forging, shaping, finishing items kept showing up.

When we weren't setting up, and by that, I mean I was setting up, Mr. Guna showed me how to stretch. If breathing was bad, this was worse. I had been peppy after breathing compared to this and this took twice as long. I'm not sure if it was because setup kept getting in the way, stretching was harder than breathing or I was just a bad stretcher. It goes without saying that while stretching I was supposed to still be doing the breathing. But it took longer. And was harder.

Once the forge was assembled and Mr. Guna was satisfied that I was stretched and could breath, we started drilling. No not taking a drill and drilling something. For example, Mr. Guna found a roughly one-hundred-pound bar of metal. I had to grasp it in tongs and quench it. Over and over. You think a one-hundred-pound metal bar is heavy? Try holding it in one hand. With tongs. Any miniscule deviation from perfect, ideal, form warranted a whack with Mr. Guna's ever present stick. Drilling made me long to go back to stretching.

Weeks went by. Kelly moved Travis to a place with less medical supervision. I signed all the payment papers. It was good news. It would still be crazy expensive, but an order of magnitude less so and it was a sign he was getting better. Drilling continued.

The day finally came.

"Today we come to hammering." Stated Mr. Guna.

I was all excited. My stomach was fluttering.

Mr. Guna took a strange, misshapen stick with a ball of lead at the end he'd had me buy with all the other devices. It was crazy heavy. Guna handled it like a chopstick. He handed me the lead ended stick and turned on all three forges which made the room crazy hot. Then I learned how to strike.

Drilling was nothing compared to striking. Apparently, there are eight different components to the ideal hammer blow. The days went by, Guna's stick fell and I tried to master the eight components.

My muscles were corded and hard. I was never hydrated enough.

"Striking is where you place what you call 'magic' into the metal. You must not only have mastered the art of the physical movement, but the placing of your spirit into the metal." Mr. Guna lectured me. Probably the longest string of words he made the whole time of his tutelage.

It should be understood that each step had built upon the last. I was expected to be breathing properly at all times. When I would screw up and breath the old way, such a dirty habit, or, heaven forefend, pant, one could expect the rod to correct instantly with Guna's version of a snarl, "Breath."

Of course, my stretching had to be correct as a preamble to the day and each action. I had to execute perfect form from several drills before I even lifted the hammer to practice striking. Each movement, no matter how small was choreographed.

While doing all this, Guna now expected me to also be controlling magic. Of course, he had a solution for each failure. I know a lot of behavioral scientists believe in positive reinforcement, but negative reinforcement provides a kind of perfectly clear, immediate communication the efficiency of which is hard to overstate.

It felt like forever but was actually eight days and I could command hammer, while infusing with my will to place a mark on metal. Of course, I had no idea what mark to make.

We were well into the third month when samples of different types of metals began to arrive. Steel and stainless steel, aluminum and titanium, tungsten and magnesium, bronze and brass, gold and silver, copper and platinum, iron and tin and many, many other more exotic samples. While still spending time practicing, we also reviewed the samples. Guna taught me how to read the metal, how to feel it's structure and resonances. This led to being able to tell how they would stack and make structures. In turn, this led to learning how different structures would be useful. Which led to a whole new way to evaluate tools.

When I had learned to read the metal and the rudiments of how to arrange the metal, Mr. Guna started showing me how to arrange the magic to have effects, this effect would make it stronger, this effect would make it faster, this effect will make it lighter, this effect will make it sharper and cut more deeply.

In one of the few questions I dared to venture in six months, I asked, "How can I make it smarter Master?"

Mr. Guna's response was swift and clear, "You are not ready for that!" Accompanied by a particularly sharp blow of his stick.

Maybe he liked that I had sand enough to ask a question, maybe he planned to show me all along. One thing Mr. Guna did teach me was how to put a pattern of magic on an item that would harden it from disruptions from a mage's magic aura. It was strangely like putting a magic electromagnetic field etched into the object. The technique's effectiveness was limited by that particular forger's own power and skill, but it was substantially better than the half-assed things I had been trying.

When Mr. Guna felt that I had learned enough. We started to try and make things. They failed miserably. They were lopsided. They cracked in quench. I found new and creative ways to fail. Item after item, representing hours and days. If I wasn't under Mr. Guna's tutelage I would have given myself up as hopelessly incompetent.

However, I learned something from each item. How to read the metal. How to build and balance the structure. How to feel for the imperfection that would fail at quench. Eventually, I succeeded. I had produced a real hammer head. It was no Mjolnir. But it would make a better forge hammer than anything sold for money. As I finished it, I looked at the calendar for the first time in weeks. It was Mr. Guna's last day.

I looked up at Mr. Guna and said, "Thank-you for your tutelage. I hope I am worthy to be granted your tutelage again Master."

In what was a major gushing response of positive emotion from Mr. Guna, he nodded.

That evening a very nice Rolls limousine arrived for Mr. Guna. Jake and I carried his bags back to the curb. The driver, after carefully assisting Mr. Guna in entering and sitting in the car, single handedly loaded the bags into the car. The bags were clearly in excess of the size of the car, but still all fit. Magic. Then the driver tipped his hat to us, hopped in the car and drove off into the modestly snowy night.

Without looking up I said, "Jake wanna go to Hooter's?"

Jake wanted to go. Hooter's was miraculously having another all you can eat wing night. They definitely lost money on that deal with us.

I got up the next morning. I found myself getting out of bed at five. I wanted to sleep in, but I couldn't. My body was sure that if it slept in, it would get hit with a stick.

I got up. I got dressed. I went down and had breakfast. The house was messy by our normal standards. I knew Diane, Miranda and Brenda had been pitching in, but they were busy with their own duties. Diane's duty to the grounds didn't get any lighter if there were two or ten of us. On top of that, it had been leaf season in Omaha which is probably the worst and hardest for grounds keeping. Miranda's job also didn't get a lot easier with one less mouth to feed, which really, had been replaced already. Miranda was also in the final year of her program. Final year is always the most demanding in any program I've ever seen. Brenda had lost a ton of time from her classes earlier trying to get my optic system together and was still fiddling with it but had been playing catch up on some very demanding classes all semester.

I spent the day mopping every floor that could be mopped, vacuuming every other floor, cleaning all the public toilets, the girls could worry about their private ones, dusting everything and removing all accumulated garbage. I felt the house was substantially cleaner by the end of the day when the girls started coming home from class for dinner. They were all giggling about the cleanliness.

Miranda finally ventured, "Did you call in 'Merry Maids?'"

I responded laconically, "Must have been elves."

That started the giggling all over again.

The next day I checked in with Travis. Kelly had moved him from the secondary place to an apartment near her and Jake after a couple months. I vaguely recalled having the papers put in front of me for signature and pulling out a checkbook to pay a security deposit, signing fees and rent. I took Travis to a nearby diner where we settled into a booth with a view of the snow, drank hot drinks and had some breakfast.

"I was probably at fifty percent by then," Travis explained, "Which was plenty to live on my own. They had a physical therapist check in on me every few weeks, but I was fine. With your money, I could get to the grocery store okay. Kelly and Jake would give me rides a lot. The apartment complex has a good gym. The perimeter is good for runs."

"Sounds good. You talked to Jim?" I said.

I looked Travis over. It looked like my money was well spent. He seemed much better than last I saw him, I guessed he still had a way to go, but he was getting there. Travis struck me as a rugged piece of shoe leather of a man. He stood about five ten. He had a cheap but serviceable brown felt hat on. He was wearing a grey/green Carhart jacket and cheap store-bought versions of the black fatigue pants I wore. He wore a simple off the rack, button down shirt and simple, serviceable hiking boots.

"Yeah. He was real helpful. I have my license; a copy of my birth certificate and the Passport came a couple weeks back. I have access to my old accounts, such as they are and opened a new one here in Omaha. I also have my Missouri CCP, but nothing to C." Travis answered.

"Good. Glad you're getting your life back in order." I answered.

"I have some concerns." He said.

"Oh what?" I answered.

"First off, you've been laying down a whole lot of scratch for me. I'm worried about what you expect from your investment. I haven't had a lot of other options, so I'm obliged, but what exactly do you figure it entitles you to?" He asked.

Before Mr. Guna, I probably wouldn't have picked up his nervous undertone. Having to be sensitive to Mr. Guna's hyper-subtle feelings had sharpened my sensitivity greatly. Another thing the Svartalves could do was open a line as sensitivity consultants.

"Look. You don't owe me anything you don't want to give. If you want, I'll take you down to the bus station and put you on a bus wherever you want to go and if you never want to see me again, just don't come back to Omaha. Yeah, it's been a chunk of change looking after you, but I have money.

"What I hope you realize is that we're stuck together. You're not a normal person. You told me, you're a Hunter. I lived a long time like you did, skimming along the surface of the water, waiting for a big mouth bass to come up and eat me. I was pretending that the world was normal, and I was safe. I got lucky. My wake-up call scared the poop out of me, but I wasn't hurt, killed or worse. You weren't so lucky. You got grabbed by someone I call the Compost Mage. He stuck you in a big construct and tried to have you kill me. Ninety-nine out of hundred people you tried that on and failed, would have killed you out of hand. I don't know exactly how the Compost Mage's magic works, but it looks like you were on a one-way trip. Even if you had won and killed me, there was no way to get you out of there and no way to keep you alive in there. Now that you have really disappointed him by surviving, he'll be looking for you. You know how to track. Did you know there's a whole branch of magic devoted to tracking people down? All they need is a sample. No doubt he has all sorts of samples of you. My guess is there isn't a hole in the world deep enough for you to hide in. They'll track you down, drag you out and put you in something worse. But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you want to take your chances out there. It's up to you." I finally finished.

He leaned back, clearly uncomfortable. I continued.

"I'm sorry. I know it sucks. The life you had is dead. You should take a bit and mourn it. Even if we could fire a magic death beam tomorrow and make this Compost Mage go away permanently, we're still both small potatoes. We're both a lot safer and stronger together as allies then we are apart. There's no such thing as safety, but there can be more safe."

It took him a while, but he finally said, "Like I said, I'm obliged, but this whole thing has knocked me on my ass. All my gear and my car are gone in the wind. I don't have anything in the bank and I'm lucky my home hasn't been foreclosed on yet. Whatever happens, I'm not rich. I need a job. I need to be able to pay my bills and get new gear if I'm going to be any use to anyone."

I leaned back.

"Let me give you the deal. Right now, there's Jake and me. Obviously, we have some vanilla humans around us, but, basically, it's just us. If you have a better offer somewhere else, like I said, I'll put you on the bus right now. Heck, I might go with you. Do you?" I asked.

"No. You're the only two 'non-vanilla' humans I know." He answered.

"Fine. I'm not worried about the money I've laid out for you so far. I am formally inviting you to join Jake and me. What each of has, we give. Maybe somewhere down the road, you'll take a bullet for me, or help raise my kid after I get killed for you. No one can guess what the future holds. But were allies and hopefully friends." I offered.

"That's quite an offer." He said.

"It is, do you need time to think about it?" I asked.

"No. I accept. It's very generous." He said.

I could tell he meant it.

"We don't write this in blood. If you ever change your mind. Just let us know and be on your way." I said.

"Very fair." He answered.

"As for money. Like I said, don't worry about it. What you have to give, you'll give. I have money. Don't worry about what I've laid out for you so far. The apartment is paid for another half year and you have money in your Omaha account to pay for basics. I don't expect to pay for you forever, when you're ready and you have something to move onto, we can transition." I said.

"That's generous. Thank-you." He said.

"As for a job, I have a sense you would be very good at security work." I said.

"I suppose so." He answered.

"When I got back from almost being killed by you, we did a sweep and found three devices from this Compost Mage running surveillance on my home. You could take that over. Pays good." I said.

"Why haven't you tracked down this sumbitch and put him down yet?" Travis asked.

"That's a good question that leads to some very basic problems. Number one, we have no idea where he is. He reaches out and touches us, pretty much when he wants to. Secondly, there's nothing to say that if we did track him down to his hole, that he wouldn't be able to swat us down. He could be very powerful and we're a minor sideline. Lastly, his home court could have millennia of countermeasures built in to give him a very insurmountable home field advantage." I explained.

"Oh." he answered.

"You may remember me asking about stuff you remember. You work on it, come up with something that tells us where he lives, maybe we could go have a look. I don't ask this stuff to make you uncomfortable or feel awkward. Remembering little details might be unpleasant but could mean all of our survival. As we sit, yeah, we're a little stronger with you. I'm busting my ass every day to improve myself to give us the best possible chance. Jake's a good kid, doing what he can. I know you're working hard to pull yourself back together and that's the best thing you can do for us.

"I know you were in the Marines, so you understand that as long as he can throw punches and we can't do anything but survive, eventually he's going to get lucky. He's going to catch us off guard, at a bad moment and we'll all be dead or buried in garbage. We have some real life or death challenges here. Frankly, I'm surprised he's waited this long. I figure that's part of his thing, attack, pester, leave alone for a long time, you think you're safe, he attacks again. Tends to support the sideline theory. It's also a great long-term strategy. He has literally no risk. Gets to keep catching us by surprise for the minimum cost of acquisition each time." I stopped since I realized I had been talking for a while.

"I'm sorry." He said after a bit.

That wasn't what I was expecting.

"Sorry for what?" I asked surprised.

"If I could just remember a damn thing, it could be a big help. I'm no help." He said.

Whoa. I needed to take a step back into sensitivity land. Travis was dealing with a lot right now. His whole conception of himself as a strong and capable man had just been tipped into the outhouse. He'd been used as a weapon against his will. I know we had washed the poop out of his body, but I'd gotten to see what was in his mind. Just in case he didn't have enough problems, he had to now also mourn his lost life. And I had just basically blamed everything on him, which no doubt dovetailed nicely with the guilty for being used like that feelings. Go Doctor Sheldon. Mr. Sensitivity.

"The Compost Mage has probably been playing this game for a long time. As I pointed out, you were part of a fire and forget kind of deal. He may have just kept you blindfolded or unable to see as a reflex precaution, the way you might open a newly handed pistol to see if it's loaded. Further, the experience was loaded with head injuries, you're lucky you remember your own name, much less those seconds. I'm sure we can come up with something for you to be useful if you want." I said, trying to sound calm not placating or patronizing.

"I want." He said.

"First thing we need, is for you to get yourself back to as close to one hundred percent as you can. If we can find this guy, we'll need the biggest punch we can get."

"Will do."

"Good. Let's go, I have some ideas." I said.

We left in my truck. I drove back to my place. I took him to the shop that just happened to be above the confinement room. I took out the jars of mud and compost.

"You said you were a tracker. Any ideas?" I asked.

He carefully picked each jar up and examined it from the outside.

"Can I open them?" He asked.

"Yeah, sure." I answered.

He opened the jars and looked at them. Smelled them. Tasted a couple with his pinky.

He looked at me and said, "Have you had them tested?"

Amazing how five words can make you feel like a complete idiot.

"No, but that sounds like a good idea." I answered.

Then I had a good idea and took Travis to the garage.

"By the way Travis, since you have your license, you might as well take the Jeep." I said as I handed Travis the keys.

Travis' eyes almost jumped out of his head when he saw my Jeep truck.

"Much obliged." Travis said as he took my keys and drove off.

We left the shop. I had Travis do some counter surveillance on my house and the apartments. I told him to just look, don't engage.

I had samples of the dirt and compost sent out for testing. I had access to the best forensic soil and anthropology labs in the world. Unfortunately, the soil people warned me, a sample can be tested against, but can't tell you specifically where it's from by itself.

Part of my problem I realized was that I tended to look at any given problem as either technology or magic. I needed to really make a point of looking at every problem both ways. Ideally, perhaps even coming up with new ways. I was at my best when I built magic and technology synergies.

While I was waiting on the mud tests, I decided to keep another ball in the air. I was having a problem with my hammer. I had forged the hammer head with Mr. Guna. However, I was on my own getting a handle on the hammer. On the third day after Mr. Guna left, the handle, made of the best hickory I could find, broke at the join between handle and head. I had two problems. I had never really tried to learn how to join a handle and a tool head. Secondly, I didn't have a piece of hickory that I felt real resonance with.

I could give up or I could keep trying.

I went to Woodworkers Supply and I got a cheap axe head and a dozen handles. I paid for their best guy to give me a personal class in handle attachment. It took a few tries, but I got it. It wasn't an impossible skill, just took some doing.

The second problem was more complicated. There are three major wood suppliers in the Omaha area and many hardware stores. I checked them all. Not a single piece of hickory that felt "right."

I got Travis to come back over.

Travis gave me his counter-surveillance report. He had picked up the Dark Glass guys, but nothing else. So far so good.

"I want you to set up a spiraling pattern starting from my house around the Omaha area. Note the location of every hickory tree. Every few days we'll go out together and you'll give me a tour. I need to find just the right tree." I explained.

"Is there anything special I should be looking for in the tree?" He asked.

"I wish I could explain. When I meet the right tree, I'll know." I answered.

I had some unused buildings in my home. I moved the metal forging shop to it's own space, carefully maintaining the layout Mr. Guna made to the millimeter.

I also worked with Woodworkers Supply to set up a wood shop. I got top of the line tools across the board. I also wanted the ability to dry my wood, so I had a full kiln set up.

Every two to three days I would go with Travis to visit all the hickory trees he had found. Omaha is a city with a lot of trees. We would spend a few hours visiting a few hundred trees. Time went by. As the search radius expanded the trips became every three to four days.

The results came back from the jars. I had sent multiple samples to multiple labs. None of the labs could come up with anything on the compost. They could tell me exactly what was in the muck, but thanks to modern transport and interchangeability, it could have been made anywhere. I also got my first reports back on the soil. That was better. The soil had definitely not come from some garden supply place but had been dug out of the ground somewhere in the Rocky Mountain Front Range. That meant Wyoming, Colorado or New Mexico.

That information didn't really change anything. The Compost Mage had gone from being anywhere on Earth with a likelihood somewhere in North America to being likely in a three-state area. One has to point out, he could have just picked up and moved yesterday, the way he had left the warehouse in Carter Lake and be in Uzbekistan by now. That said, I somehow felt re-energized. It was like when my Dad put his arm around me while I was trying to get a damn watch to keep working. I was not completely hopeless, I was just mostly hopeless.

It didn't hurt that on the next trip, I found the tree.

It was thirty-seven miles from home and well out in the countryside. Many farmers will have rings of trees around their fields as wind breaks. Most such trees don't get a lot of love and attention. This hickory was in a farmer's tree line. It was dead, apparently killed by a lightning strike. Maybe that had something to do with it?

We went to the farmer and I asked for the tree.

"Why do you want my dead tree?" The farmer asked.

"For the lumber." I answered honestly. "I would be helping you out. I would pay to have it pulled out and hauled away. That would be a substantial savings for you."

"I don't know. Make it a little bit sweeter." The farmer said.

"I'll pay to have a new twenty-foot tree planted come Spring. That's as far as I'll go." I answered.

"Done." The Farmer said and we shook.

I had an outfit come out the next day and drag the tree out of the ground, put it on a flat bed and drag it to my house. I paid a local nursery to come out and plant a new hickory come Spring and sent a copy of the receipt to the farmer.

I was thinking of having someone from Woodworkers come out and help me with the tree when Travis said, "You need some help with the tree?"

Turns out Travis knew his way around a woodshop.

Travis and Jake helped me process the tree into useful pieces and put most of the tree in a drying chamber to stabilize it. Then we cut out a blank for the hammer handle and completely treated it. We did a couple passes with store bought hickory to make sure we could turn a block of wood into a handle reliably. Then pulled our blank from the kiln and made a very nice hammer handle from the tree.

While practicing with the store-bought wood, I amused Travis and Jake by being able to pick out the wood from the tree and the store bought, blindfold over and over.

I inserted the handle into the hammer head, and I had a working forge.

I sent Travis back to rehab and I went to work.

As luck would have it, I now had a mountain of high-quality steel in the form of reject bolts. The bolts were some very expensive, very high quality, high carbon stainless steel. I now had a forge where I could use them as raw material. I took a batch of bolts and made a knife.

I knew a fair amount about Travis. I knew he used to carry a pretty good K Bar knife that had been lost. I could have made him another or bought him a fancy one. But I didn't. I forged a knife that was a little of several others including a Bowie, a Japanese hunter and a skinning knife. It had a bit of an "S" shape, so the handle curved forward giving it a nice ergonomic grip. The body of the knife had a fat belly that would be very practical for gutting and skinning game. It had a flat back that gave it extra strength. It would also be a wicked weapon in a fight.

Most combat knives one sees these days are thin and light and focused on fancy high speed folding features. This knife was none of those. It didn't fold. It was solid and heavy. Yes, a bit of that make it stronger, add more material idea. Ug ug. Something told me Travis would like it that way. He needed some solidity in his life.

I spent a long time hammering that knife. Hammering in strength and sharpness and speed.

All the breathing and stretching and drilling and hammering Mr. Guna had taught me were in that knife. Each step and movement a careful choreography to insure just the right amount of time was spent for best outcome.

When I finally quenched the knife, it did not crack.

I gave the knife a good polish and a handle of elk horn.

I called over Travis and gave it to him.

"This is a pretty nice knife." He said.

"All your gear is gone. You need to start getting your kit back together." I said.

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	14. Chapter 14

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 14 On the Road Again

Travis was not a bundle of emotion, but he loved that knife and that made me feel good. He was getting about as far back as one might hope. Jake was making good progress towards his GED.

One day as I wasted time puttering around the forge trying to figure what to do next, Travis dropped by.

"I'd like to run by my cabin and get some stuff. Even if I'm not gonna stay there." He said.

"Okay," I answered. "It's not like you have to ask permission."

"I just figured you'd want us to stay together as a group?" He answered.

Well that made sense.

It was February. While cold, the roads were clear. Truth was, I hadn't been out much lately. The idea of a road trip sounded good. I needed some time to think anyway as I thought about my next project.

I had a handful of items on the table. I had Big Baby roughly half way to done. I was thinking about what I might do with a second-generation axe. I was also trying to figure out how I might use my amazing new forge skills to improve our gear. To be honest, my gear. Most of my gear was made of plastic and ceramic. There was some steel in my firearms but not exactly appropriate to forging.

I called Jake and asked him if he wanted to come. He wanted. I let the girls know we'd be leaving the next day at eight. I packed a grip. Put Baby and my shotgun in the truck. My Dodge has something called Ramboxes which run down the length of the bed and provide lockable storage. Mopar sells a rack for the Ramboxes to hold rifles. I loaded some ammo as well.

The next morning Travis rolled up at seven fifty in the Jeep truck with Jake. We convoyed over to the Costco and topped off then headed south on I-29. We got to Kansas City just after eleven and stopped for some que for lunch. Then we headed down to Branson. It was a quiet drive with plenty of time for thinking. Jake spelled both of us driving. It made sense to bring both vehicles, we'd be able to bring more crap back and while one field trip was nice, the fewer round trips after this the better. I didn't want to push it. The drive gave Jake and me some good time to talk. I reviewed his math and gave pointers. Jake also got time to talk to Travis. They included me in that conversation by cell phone which was nice.

We checked into a nice hotel in Branson for the evening, then we went and got a nice steak dinner, took in a show and settled in for the evening. Before we went to sleep in the suite, I checked my report. The day before I had ordered a patrol of the cabin by Dark Glass security. It wasn't as expensive, per man, as the detectives. The guys they would send would be, merely, former Green Beret, Marine Force Recon, SEAL-type guys. There would be a team of eight, they would stay out of sight and just sweep to make sure El Compost Mage didn't have any nasty surprises waiting for us.

The report described the area as deserted and safe.

We got up the next morning and went for some breakfast. Travis ate solidly, but nowhere near as much as Jake and me. We got in our trucks and drove the last hour over to Travis' cabin.

I had led the way down to Branson, but since Travis knew the way to his cabin, it made more sense for him to lead, so I followed. I was thinking about how much grunt work would be involved. I really had no idea what Travis had in that cabin that he wanted to bring, was it a bag of clothes, a chest of personal things, a grand piano? I was also worrying about lunch. I needed to eat a lot more these days to feel okay. His Cabin would be out in the middle of nowhere. We'd be lucky to be back to civilization by evening. Maybe I should signal a stop to get a cooler full of snacks and sandwiches?

We drove up into the hills and it was incredibly beautiful. Vista after vista of primeval forest, lakes and hills. I knew if it was beautiful now, mid-winter, it must be amazing in other seasons. We climbed and climbed, and the roads got smaller and smaller. Eventually we left the paved road and traveled on gravel.

Finally, we got to a fence. Travis jumped out and opened the fence. Jake drove the Jeep through, and I followed. Travis closed the fence behind us.

We drove up his very long, and I was proud to see, very well graveled driveway through the woods. We emerged into a large clearing with a small wooden cabin in the middle. I would have guessed from the exterior it was 1000-1500 square feets inside. I could see an entrance to a root cellar on the side of the building. I could also see a well, water holding tank and septic system. I also noted where the propane tank was. I had always envisioned a more Nebraska-like open grass covered field with occasional tree kind of place. There was space around the house, but it was definitely out in the woods.

We parked and got out. I was still wearing my gear, though my visor was up. I expected I would take some stuff off if there was a lot of sweaty moving to do, but for the moment, it was cold. The cold didn't bother Jake at all, he was wearing his standard t-shirt and ripped jeans. I opened the tonneau cover for my truck bed, figuring we would be loading soon. We walked up to the front door and just as Travis was about to do something to open the front door, the woods on every side came alive.

I yelled, "Back to the trucks!"

We ran back to my truck. Jake stopped to pull his baseball bat from the Jeep. I popped open the Rambox with the rifle rack. I could see around us what I swear were zombies. For a split second I could see there were human zombies, some still wearing camo with M-4s still strapped to their bodies, others looked like local contractors. I didn't have time to count. There were also all sorts of zombie critters, dogs, raccoons, and other things. I was intensely aware there were too many, too close. We were going to die. I had time to get one gun out of the Rambox. Inside was Baby II and the Marine. The smart play was for me to grab Baby and ammo. I grabbed the Marine and a satchel with about a hundred rounds and threw them to Travis. That made no sense. How well did I know Travis? What if he was in on the ambush? Lots of good reasons to think that. Yes, I could see inside him and I knew a lot about his history, but he had been a guest of the Compost Mage, either willingly or not. There could be stuff in his head he didn't know about. Giving him a gun meant fewer for me.

Sometimes battles are won and lost in such moments.

Jake was already in the bed of my truck and I jumped over the side to join him. I'm sure Travis could have made the scramble up, but he was now holding a shotgun and satchel, he tried to get up, Jake grabbed him with one hand by the scruff of his jacket and lifted what was probably 200+ pounds of man and gear with one hand like a sack of potatoes and put him in on his feet in the bed. I had my Glock in my hand and started shooting. I drew a bead on the nearest human zombie in my sight and put a round through his chest. A lot of guts went out the backside and he fell down. Then he got back up and started coming again.

"Headshots!" I yelled.

The shotgun was already booming. At some level, I was very happy the impact hadn't hit me in the back. I was very aware that I had only two extra mags on me, I now had 45 shots left. I started shooting human zombies again. I was taking careful shots, mostly hitting heads and the head shots kept them down. The shotgun kept going off, I assumed Travis was a pretty good hand with a scattergun, but there were only so many rounds there. Jake was running back and forth from cab to the tailgate, as various critters found their way in, he would whack them to the sky. We were making a good showing of ourselves, but I knew it wasn't enough. There were too many of them, too close, not enough ammo. When my last mag went into the pistol, the axe came into my left hand.

I'm not sure how many shots I had left. Maybe five when someone jumped onto the roof of the cabin and yelled, "Stop!"

Everything stopped. The critters stopped coming closer and we stopped shooting.

The person on the roof was female. She looked like some sort of elf princess. Her body was covered in large leaves. She spoke.

"You have put up a valiant fight, but you must know it is in vain."

"Son of bitch!" I thought. "That's Cassie!"

She continued, "Soon, you will be overwhelmed, and you will serve my master as these creatures do, but you have a choice. Surrender, come willingly, and you will serve as I do. You need not die."

Yes, I know it sounds like a bad deal, but you have to remember, we were about to die. Also, Cassie had magic in her voice which made the idea of surrendering sound sooo good.

"Okay, well then…" I said, dropping my pistol in the bed. I saw her shoulders sag just a tiny bit, she thought I was going for it. Then, without warning, I jumped onto the cab of my truck and ran forward. I ran across the nose of my truck, jumped to bed of the Jeep, over the Jeep's cab down her hood and made one good jump onto the roof.

While she had been talking, I had been looking. She had a shadow on her head like Travis had when I brought him in. As I got to the roof, I fainted a swing with the axe at her midsection. She had amazing reflexes, she twisted her body away from my axe so fast. But that moved her head closer to me. Everything I had, all my magic, my new wolf focus, my strength, my Svartalf drilling, everything went into that one swing, which she was slow to dodge, because it wasn't really pointed at her, it was pointed just above her head.

I could tell it almost wasn't enough. My swing hit the shadow and it was much, much tougher than the one on Travis' head had been and when I broke that one, he had been strapped down and I was taking swings at my leisure with a heated glowing axe. The shadow struggled, but I was much stronger too. My axe pressed against the shadow for a split second that felt like an eternity as my axe and I struggled with the Compost Mage who fought to keep the shadow intact. Then the axe shattered the shadow and Cassie went down like a pole axed steer. All the zombies dropped like their strings had been cut. I could feel the pain and anguish of the Compost Mage for a split second as his hold was broken.

Luckily, Cassie hadn't fallen off the roof. I sat down right where I was. I felt a bit wobbly. I could see the clearing. There had been many more zombies than I had even known. We would never have been able to shoot our way out. That said, Travis had shot a LOT of them, my guess was his satchel was almost empty. Which meant he went through nearly a hundred rounds of shotgun, having to reload an eight-round tube one by one, as fast as I had gone through forty or so pistol rounds that could be reloaded with fifteen shot magazines. Humbling.

Travis sat down on a Rambox. Jake jumped up to the roof. I was sure to see Cassie, but he came over to me first and said, "Are you okay?"

I was really touched.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks. Help me get her down." I replied.

I was thinking we would carefully carry her together, maybe jump, maybe climb.

Jake just picked her up and jumped down. That made me feel like a pansy, so I jumped down.

This was a crazy situation.

There was a fire pit. There was gasoline and a large woodpile. Other things could be dragged into the woods and buried and likely never surface again.

It was tempting.

But the men, I counted 16, including the Dark Glass guys, had families.

We talked for a few minutes, Jake and Travis agreed with me.

We pulled out some water from Travis' holding tank and washed Cassie. Her body, but not her head, was covered in the pale white mud plaster and the plaster was covered with the leaves. She was nude beneath, but she wasn't very appealing, her body was covered, as Travis' had been, with deep bruising. Still, I twisty tied the important parts and then duct taped them, then wrapped her in a blanket and duct taped that. Then we put her in my bed and closed it up.

I got two more Glock mags and reloaded everything. Then I got Baby and attached her to the coat's sling mounts and made sure I had four mags for her ready to go. It was closing the barn door after the horse has already run off, but it made me feel better.

I took the shotgun, and nearly empty satchel and put them back in my truck. Then Jake and I left.

"Now remember," I said as I left, "give me 45 minutes before you call."

I drove a ways back down the road until I was on a major highway and we stopped at a rest area.

Travis would call the local authorities then. He later told me about it. He had gone into his house and got his rifle and fired one round before the police arrived.

"I found my place like this." He would say.

What would the police be able to say or do? Travis could prove he had been in Branson the night before. The mass of dead men and critters would clearly not fit with any logical explanation. I was sure it would drive the authorities nuts that they could not explain what happened.

I used my time to check in with some legal experts back at one of my clients. I got the best criminal defense law firm in the state on retainer for Travis. Travis' cabin was south east of Branson. Jake and my credit cards were used in a number of places west of Branson, earlier in the day.

In the end, it was anti-climactic. The law was the local sheriff who had, like most of the senior deputies, grown up with Travis. They knew in their hearts he hadn't killed those men.

The sheriff called in all sorts of other law enforcement including State Police and FBI. They confiscated Travis's rifle as "evidence." However, Travis's basic story couldn't be challenged. He had been away recovering from an injury. He had come home to get some things and check on his place and found what was there. He'd gone in and gotten his rifle for protection while he waited. Something had spooked him while he waited for the police and he had fired the rifle once. They never even ran a gunshot residue test. They collected all kinds of evidence and took all sorts of pictures.

They turned Travis loose that night and he collected some things from his place and drove back up to Branson. As soon as he left his property, he gave me an all clear call. We immediately drove straight home.

In some ways it was like a redo. This time my truck was basically okay. It had a lot of scratches and a number of footprint shaped dents but was basically in good working order.

Jake and I dragged unconscious Cassie down to the basement of the infirmary and strapped her still very unconscious form down. Jake went upstairs to call Kelly. I put my mental shunt into her brain. I used the water and pile of towels to wash Cassie up as much as possible. Then I laid a clean towel across her midsection, I wasn't there for cheap thrills.

Kelly showed up a few minutes later. She checked Cassie's vital signs and put an IV into her.

As soon as Cassie and my other gear was unloaded, I took the truck to Jed's. When I was parked in Jed's lot, I used my pocket knife to slash all the tires. I then went and chatted with Jed.

"Want you to get the four new tires we discussed, and you brought over yesterday on the truck. Take the torn tires to the place I told you about that will turn them into children's playground mulch. Then take the mulch to the place I told you to donate it. If you add at least four tires of your own, you can have the receipt for the tax deduction." I began.

"Will do." He said.

I didn't need the tax deduction. I was on the shallow end, but definitely in the one percent. As such, I paid less in taxes then one of Jed's $12 an hour mechanics.

"It's time to start thinking about a new truck. I'll contact the dealership and get something ordered. I'll also get the panel bits started." 'Panel bits' was the term we used for the armor panels I made. "I want you to start bringing together the parts. I don't want this project hung up for weeks waiting on some small part." I continued.

"Definitely." Jed said with a smile.

Jed and I always have an ongoing conversation about what I would want when it's time to roll out the next truck. I'll admit I'm partial to Rams, but not like most truck guys. For the typical truck guy, brand loyalty is more important than religion and wives. I liked Toyota because I thought they were built better, with better accessories, particularly the factory supercharger, which is amazing. A supercharger that WOULDN'T void the factory warranty, so cool. I liked the Ford for it's aluminum body. That weight reduction would be really valuable for me, but why they couldn't eco-boost a cool V8 I will never know. But I was going with the Dodge again, sigh.

My previous standard truck plan had called for keeping the stock engine and upgrading it with turbos and a supercharger. This time Dodge had pushed me to the edge by continuing to refuse to make their Hemi motor flex-fuel. Also Dodge had a 6.4 and an even better 6.2 motor available now but insisted on only including the rapidly lengthening in the tooth 5.7 in the half-ton. I had intended to wait another year, as that was my normal pattern and I was hoping Dodge would pull it's head out of it's butt, but now I wanted to go forward. This truck had a lot of dents and wear now. It had been to the site of what was probably becoming one of the most notorious mass murders in recent US history. So far, the story hadn't broke. The authorities did that sometimes, when something was too horrible, they didn't want people to panic. They could claim later, if they got caught, that they thought keeping it secret was helping in the investigation in some way. I knew because I could read their e-mail the law enforcement that knew about the cabin were going crazy.

The plan that Jed and I had now for the next truck was to get an engine from a small boutique engine shop. It would be an 8.5-liter V-10 Hemi with beefed up structure and walls. Beefing up structure meant that one could use more boost. When one adds turbo or supercharger to an engine, one is trying to add boost. More boost equals more power. However, the more boost you add, the more likely the engine is to pop. One reason race car engines are so finicky is that race engineers try to stay right at the razor's edge of maximum boost, minimum structure. Less structure means more likely to blow, but also less weight. Less weight equals more fast. This engine we'd been eyeing had a lot more structure meaning we could use a lot more boost. The engine also was made of lots of steel, aluminum and even some ceramic, unlike the Dodge 5.7 Hemi, which used cheap, heavy iron, so it would actually be lighter despite being half-again the size! By the way, the engine would also be flex fuel.

Jed was happy because building me a new truck meant his two favorite things, a chance to do a really serious build and play with state of the art, read expensive, parts and a big pile of money. Out of curiosity, I had broken into Jed's computer system and read his books, I was his most valuable customer and my trucks were a major chunk of his business. Getting to do a new truck a year early, in a traditionally dead time of the year for speed shops was like X-Mas coming twice that year for Jed.

You may have heard my quip about waiting for weeks. Automotive technology, like all other technology has it's high-tech, bleeding edge and imminent. High-tech is what's here and at the high end of quality and price. Bleeding edge is the new bits that are just coming out and cost way more than they should for the tiny improvements they provide. Imminent is the stuff that's not even out yet but people think is about to come out and promises major improvement. There was a new kind if injector that we had wanted to use in the current truck. It was supposed to be out in time for the build. It kept getting delayed and delayed and we tried to work around them, and in the end, we got them, and they delivered as promised, but they had delayed the build by a month. It wasn't really Jed's fault, but it had been really frustrating all the same.

While my new tires went on, the detailing guys showed up. Since the minivan, I'd done some research to find out who did that kind of work. I found the outfit that DiAngelo used. They would come to you, so the police couldn't just key on their place of business. For an extra fee, the detail would go from very thorough to will not be able to provide evidence for forensic search. I had Jed take me home, they'd be detailing for a while.

Travis got back to Omaha the next day and went straight to his place to unload. Then he started running counter-surveillance.

I went back to the forge. I knew what I wanted to make next.

You may be wondering why I still have a big pile of bolts and why I don't make more non-magical stuff with my nifty new forge. It would build my skills. The problem is, anything I put magic into is a piece of me. If someone bad got a hold of one of those bolts they could use them to work magic on me. I could probably make some pretty spiffy forge work and sell it for some good money. But I don't need money and anything I forged, even if I didn't put magic into it, would also be a piece of me. Old magical craft-hands probably have some sort of trick to prevent it, but Mr. Guna hadn't shown it to me and hell if I had figured it out on my own. Remember, I'm really good at knitting together other people's solutions, I suck at figuring out new ones on my own.

I'd used my axe twice recently, not in the way it had been intended. I figured my new axe should be built more around that idea. I liked the idea of creating something designed to break slave bonds, magical and practical. I might not be able to just throw the bolts away, but they made wonderful raw material for forging. I started beating out the head that day.

Travis showed up the next day. He looked the same as before we went down, except now he was wearing a beat-up old leather jacket.

I had to ask.

"What exactly were you wanting to get down there?"

He let out a frustrated breath and said, "There were a few knick-knacks I wanted nearby if I was going to be here for a while, but mostly this jacket, my backup pistol and rifle."

"Well, you got the jacket?" I answered sheepishly. He was clearly upset.

"It's just frustrating. I'm not like you. I've never had a lot of money, but I earned a decent living. Saved up. I didn't have a huge amount in the bank, but I had some nice things. I had a nice Jeep, a good rifle, pistol, knife. Some decent clothes. A good hat. Money in my pocket I'd earned to buy a drink. Maybe buy a drink for a pretty girl. My whole life just feels like it got flushed down the toilet. I thought if I could just get my rifle and pistol, at least I could feel like I could defend myself."

"What happened to your guns?" I asked. I didn't know about the rifle yet.

He explained what he did with the rifle and what had happened to it. I'm not a legal genius, but if the rifle was in for "evidence," then it was gone. They would never be able to solve the case of what happened to those 16 men. But with so many dead, they would never close it either and they wouldn't give up the rifle if they couldn't close the case.

"What about the pistol?" I asked.

"With all those lawmen sniffing about having already confiscated my rifle? I could pull it out and it would be in the joint too. Maybe me with it. Lot of those Fibbies are back east kind of people, don't understand the concept of an armed private individual. Just seeing the rifle had me half-way into the back of car. As is, it's stuck in the safe under the floorboards until further notice. Not like we want to go back down and give Garbage Man another shot at us for a pistol." He answered, clearly frustrated.

"Well that's true." I thought.

I was about to say something about buying a good new hat in St. Joseph. It's on the way back and there's a Stetson outlet store. It's THE place to get a good new hat. Luckily, my empathy kicked in before my big mouth. A big part of the problem was that Travis was a proud and decent man and didn't want to take charity, not for a new hat. Every penny he took from me probably stuck in his craw. At one level, I liked that. At another it was frustrating, I could just buy him whatever gear could be had for money and would be happy to do it.

"I know we're in a sucky situation." I said. "I have a life I'd like to lead. I know I must look pretty comfortable up here, and, in some ways, let's be honest, I am. Still, there are all sorts of things I'd like to do but can't. I was down to one Three Gun match a year, and after meeting you, that's down to zero. I'd like to meet more women too, that's pretty much frozen. I'd like to be spending my intellectual energy publishing papers and doing something which pushes the boundaries of human knowledge, not spending every second trying to figure out how to make myself more ready to fight. More important, the list of what I can't do is getting consistently longer, not shorter. The three of us are all screwed. As long as we're on this guy's radar and we must be top-of-the-shitlist on his radar now, we're all screwed. None of us gets to live the life we want most, even Jake, and he's a good kid. I know Kelly and Jake worry about putting Michael in danger. Thank goodness neither of us have something like that on our heads. At least not as directly as they do.

"All that said, we're in a life and death situation and we're in it together. If we were all stuck in a remote cabin, and there was a crazy snow storm with sub-freezing temperatures and one of us had food and one had firewood and one had a lighter and blankets we would share to survive. If you took a blanket from me, it wouldn't be charity. Just common sense. You bring a lot to the table. We just fought a major battle and won, in no small part, thanks to you."

"What do you mean?" He interrupted. "You're the one who jumped on that roof."

"The way you used that shotgun rocked her back on her heels. She wanted us all grabbed before she made her speech. Cassie's not a military tactical genius. She didn't realize we were running out of ammo. She stopped the fight because she didn't realize how far we were against the wall and how strong her position was. She didn't realize it mostly because of you and the way you handled that shotgun. If you weren't part of the equation, she might have pulled that same move as Jake and I left a restaurant together. She would have probably given us that offer when we were tied up on the ground, with hoods on our heads and boots on our necks.

"I don't know how long this thing will last. A day. A week. A month. A year. Forever. We may still lose. We've won each fight so far, but none by more than a whisker. I happen to have money. Helping you with that money makes us all more likely to survive. Let me help. If we ever win this, maybe we can go onto more normal lives, maybe not, there's always another crazy predator in the ocean. While we're under siege, let's make the best of it."

"I guess if you put it that way, okay." He said.

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	15. Chapter 15

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 15 Break Away

I took Travis jacket shopping. They're a few places in town to look at a leather jacket. What Travis was wearing was made of denim and cheap cracking leather. It looked like something for a teenager from times gone by. We looked at a bunch of jackets and I found out he wanted what's generally known as a stadium coat.

I was juggling.

I wanted to spend as much time with Cassie as possible. To be honest. I wanted to be there when she woke up. If she was an unwilling victim like Travis, it would be very cruel to have her wake alone so telling Jake he couldn't sit with her would be impossible. But if she was more a willing ally of the Compost Mage, then she could probably wrap Jake's gentle head around her finger in seconds. Further, there might be things I could get out of her right when she woke up that would be impossible even a few minutes later. That could be key to our survival.

I also wanted to work on my axe. My axe had played a key role in the last two fights. Getting a next generation axe could be key to our survival.

I wanted to get Travis better equipped. Getting him to a better place could make him much more effective in a fight. That could be key to our survival.

There were also other little projects like getting Big Baby ready. We'd just had a demonstration of how much better it would have been to have Big Baby in a fight. If the Compost Mage decided to come at us with hordes of little stuff again, Big Baby could be key to our survival.

One probably notices a certain trend.

In addition, I had some other small business to attend to.

The RV people were calling. They had gotten to the point where they needed the panel bits to proceed.

I was trying to order a body for the truck. I had gotten tired of buying a whole truck and then throwing 80% of the value away. Ram didn't want to sell me what I wanted, especially for a fair price.

The house needed cleaning and there was no one but me to do it.

I still hadn't taken time to meet DiAngelo.

I also got a call from a guy named Vinton.

Luckily, I was still waking up at five.

I basically spent every minute I wasn't doing something else with Cassie. Including sleeping. I even brought a lot of work down to basement exam room and did it there. I had a feeling that when she woke up it would be between ten am and 2pm. I'm not sure why I felt that, but I was trusting my feelings and spending that time with her each day. This was hardly perfect, but it was the best I could do.

I spent a few hours a day, generally right after I woke up, on my axe. I started with the clips. Clips are small metal wedges used to secure an axe or hammer head to a handle. They didn't take long, only a couple days. I continued taking a few hours a day, generally in early morning, to move the project along. I think it was actually better that way. It let me pour myself out completely on what I was working on and then rest until I was ready for the next step. Further, I could think very carefully about how I wanted to take the next step.

I was able to do a lot of delegating for Travis. He was a huge help.

I wanted to get my materials lab team back together but that wasn't going to happen. Instead, I found the two best hitters, Danny Padawadaway Patel and Shirley Chin and just hired them. Actually, I had a client hire them to work in my lab. They were happy. I was happy. The client got a major whole in his cyber security closed on the qt.

I got Travis back to my materials lab. I got my grad students to work measuring Travis up.

Danny and Shirley made Travis a set of boots fairly quickly. We had basic patterns for that already, all we needed was to measure his feet. The jacket took longer, but it was mostly made of improved Type B. It also had winter and summer inserts.

One of the things one may, or may not, wear under armor is a cushioning layer, or insert. If one gets hit while wearing armor, the armor may stop the bullet from penetrating, but the force of the bullet can still be a savage hammer blow. Getting bruises, knocked down, broken bones, broken blood vessels, even broken organs are all possibilities. Padding, depending on how good it is, can help. We made two sets of padding for Travis' coat, one in winter weight, which he could wear now and keep warm and one in summer weight so he could tolerate the jacket better during the summer.

Of course, as soon as Jake saw Travis' jacket, he wanted one too. Then Jake noticed the boots and he wanted those too, so we put together a set for Jake. Jake wanted his jacket to be a motorcycle jacket. I was all set to make something of chrome and black leather. It turns out Jake wanted a modern motorcycle jacket. Sigh. The jacket would definitely have state of the art spine protection. I also got Jake a good helmet that would link up with the spine protection. Was the motorcycle helmet bulletproof? No. A motorcycle helmet works by absorbing shocking blows. Bulletproof doesn't absorb shock.

I was also working on guns for Travis. Travis had used a bolt action .30-06, (pronounced thirty aught six) rifle and an FN Five Seven pistol. That's an expensive pistol. The Five Seven fired an unusual caliber, 5.7x28, a remarkably controversial round. It was a provocative choice, I had to stop and think a bit about my own choices.

(Author's warning, long gun lecture to follow)

The 5.7x28's history was bound up in the tortured history of a firearms concept called the sub-machine gun. The sub-machine gun is an idea of a gun that is somewhere between a pistol and a rifle. Most early sub-machine guns like the Thompson and the Uzi used a traditionally pistol-type cartridge in something that was clearly larger than a pistol, but smaller than a rifle of the period. The idea was to create something that would be faster and handier in close quarters battle than a conventional rifle, but more powerful than a pistol. It's actually a pretty good idea. The reality that had been getting slammed into the heads of every military leader since the first World War, that most fighting would be at close quarters and that rifles needed to be shorter, faster and handier was not well absorbed. The military establishment can often be remarkably dense and slow to accept change. The military establishment could not give up the idea that all fighting would be at extended range on the green fields of western Europe and require long, slow, high accuracy rifles. As late as the second Iraq war, US troops were still armed with excessively long rifles. That said, there were some efforts. The Thompson and other sub guns were deployed in World War II. One might imagine that the Thompson, being the preferred weapon of nearly every soldier in the conflict would be a sign, unfortunately the Generals missed that. Israel, being a country that's under constant military pressure and not able to remain stupid for extended periods of time, deployed the Uzi. Eventually, the idea of the sub gun started getting a bit traction. Various versions, particularly the Uzi and Mac-10 were staples of action movies through the eighties. Heckler & Koch produced a highly capable version called the MP-5 that was widely adopted.

The MP-5 was small, reliable and very capable. It's only major drawback was it's caliber, 9mm. 9mm is pretty decent as a civilian personal defense round, because it can be loaded up with a variety of high-performance man killer rounds. The 115 grain military ball round which is required for military use by the Geneva Conventions is known as a poodle killer, i.e. not powerful enough to kill a man, but perhaps a poodle. NATO asked for something better to be produced. H&K released the MP-7 and FN released the P-90. The P-90 was clearly better, but Germany, home of H&K, sulked and nothing was ever settled. The MP-7 and P-90 both deployed intermediate sized rounds, bigger than most pistol rounds and smaller than most rifle rounds. One of the NATO requirements was that the round be capable of penetrating limited body armor. The brand-new round they created for the P-90 was the 5.7x28. The round was small, roughly half the diameter of my 10mm pistol round. However, it was backed by a big powder charge so that its small bullet could go very fast, and the smaller and faster the bullet, the more it would penetrate. That would be good, but the designers of the P-90 had come up with something very devious, the round would almost always tumble on impact. When a bullet tumbles, it creates a much nastier and more lethal wound. As an additional side benefit, a tumbling round is far less likely to over penetrate and shoot the hostage behind the terrorist.

The P-90 has gone on to be adopted by a number of agencies around the world. The P-90 was a modest success here in the US on the civilian market. FN, the manufacturer, also developed a pistol, the Five Seven that would use the same cartridge which has also been a modest success in the US civilian marketplace. Since armor piercing ammunition is illegal for pistols, 5.7x28 rounds that were not armor piercing were created for the US civilian market.

Then controversy hit. Gun control people hated the Five Seven. They claimed it was armor piercing and thus illegal. Like the vast majority of gun control sewage, that was a lie. The Five Seven with civilian ammo has the same possibility, fired from a pistol, to be armor piercing as any other pistol. The armor piercing ammo is illegal for sale on the civilian market, so a Five Seven pistol firing non-armor piercing 5.7x28 ammo is as legal as any other gun. Of course, the gun control people haven't met a chance to lie and deceive they haven't grabbed with both hands.

All that said, the 5.7x28 was a very interesting choice. I had chosen my 10mm because I was looking for better penetration and damage, both likely to be necessary when dealing with things that go bump in the night. The 5.7x28 achieved the same thing, but by going smaller, not larger. The 5.7x28, with the right ammo, could penetrate light body armor, which meant it would do well against a monster's tougher hide. Beyond that, the Five Seven had other advantages. Each magazine could hold twenty rounds! That was a third more than my Glock. There were also thirty round extended magazines available which only added a couple of inches. The 5.7 also was thought to have much better recoil than even a 9mm. That meant one could put a lot more 5.7s down range faster and more accurately. I still wasn't going to give up on my Glock. I had beaten some of the problems with a whole lot of modification. Beyond that, the 10mm still had a lot more grunt than the 5.7, but a good team has variety so the 5.7 made a lot of sense for Travis.

BTW, the sub gun concept isn't completely dead, but major militaries and arms manufacturers rolling out smaller versions of full-size rifles with full size rifle cartridges has put a dent in the concept. The deployment of bullpup rifles like the Tavor, with the best of both worlds, long barrel rifle accuracy and power with sub gun-like length have ushered in a new era.

(Author's Note: Possible spoilers. Yes, the P-90 is a certain height-challenged blond former CPD officer's go to big gun. She has excellent taste. Still, it would have been nice to see JB mention something about her having to make efforts as she left the department to stockpile the SS-190 5.7x28 ammo, i.e. the illegal for civilians but not police much higher performance 5.7x28 ammo her gun consumes and she would want considering the kinds of things she has to shoot at, assuming she would have to pay for it herself, it's expensive, she would be nervous about where money was coming from for a while but this constituted a potentially last chance to buy easily and legally before she left the force. It would have been a dramatic moment.)

I took Travis to a local gun store, Guns Unlimited. They had a Five Seven and a P-90 in stock. I bought them both and all the magazines they had in stock, which wasn't a lot. We also bought a few boxes of ammo.

The Five Seven was shelved right next to a Beretta P X 1. I remembered thinking, at least the Five Seven's not an overpriced piece of junk like that. Imagine if you lived in some gun control hellhole that would only allow ten round magazines. Might as well go line up so the Fuhrer could tattoo your slave number on you.

As we drove back to his apartment, Travis asked, "Why'd you buy the P-90? I've never used one of those."

"You've used a pistol and a bolt action rifle. In the kind of situations we get into, you might want something that's ready for a higher intensity challenge. Imagine if you could have shot fifty rounds before you had to reload at the cabin?" I answered.

"I have to admit, that makes some sense." He replied.

I had my materials people get to work on some holsters for Travis. I have some holsters from Stealthgear and G-Code that I liked and liked better remade by me from improved Type A. Every piece of rigid gear one carries has a price in bulk and weight that slows you down. I figure if they contribute back what they're supposed to, and a little armor protection too, that's better.

I started talking to my gun people. I put an order in for a McMillan TAC-338 and a GA Precision Gladius. Why these rifles? Let's just say they're very popular in the sniper community. Then I ordered big skids of ammo in 5.7x28, some bulk .308 from IWI and some Black Hills Match for .308 and .338. It took some doing but I also got 5000 rounds of the SS-190 ammo for the 5.7x28, yes, the illegal armor piercing kind. I also made sure Travis had a batch of mags for each gun, including some thirties for the Five Seven pistol.

"These are a lot of guns and some big piles of ammo." Travis said.

"Yes, they are. I expect you to get to the range and get them all worked up with their scopes." I answered. I had also bought him a couple Nightforce ATACR 5-25x56 scopes for the rifles.

"Okay." He said. I sensed he was a little overwhelmed.

"Look, I tried to replace what you've lost. Not necessarily with exactly what you lost, but the best stuff that's available now. If there's something big I've missed, let me know. If there's something small, like cleaning kits or something. Just get it. Make sure you've got good hearing and eye protection." I said.

I almost read off the standard NRA firearms safety rules and held myself back as it would be pompous and patronizing.

"Oh, the special 5.7x28, that's for 'work' so don't use that up at the range." I added, probably unnecessarily.

"I'll get right on it." He answered.

"I know you will. I have confidence. Remember we have no idea what's coming next. The difference between you being 99 and 100% could be the difference between us living and dying." I said, perhaps too melodramatically.

I was getting work done, spending time with Cassie, but there were a lot of annoyances too. The girls were dressing more conservatively these days. That made sense and I didn't mind. They were spending more time out at class and at home we were much more likely to have guests, Travis, Jake, and even Kelly and Michael. That didn't bother me. But I had noticed Travis making a point of hanging out and flirting with Miranda. At one level, that didn't bother me. Miranda was a free person. I had no chain on her. I could depend on her to be loyal to me. The plan was for her to move on in a few months when she graduated anyway. On another level it drove me nuts! I wanted to challenge Travis for dominance and rip him limb from limb. I'd like to blame it all on the wolf, but it included a lot of the old me too and was playing havoc on all my geeky insecurities.

Then there was the call from Vinton.

My cell phone rang, and I could see the call was from Dark Glass, so I answered, "Hello, this is Dr. Fox."

"Hello," the voice on the other end of the phone answered. "My name is Carl Vinton. You commissioned the services of eight of our security specialists and they are now all dead. I'm sure you can understand our concern."

"I know they failed in their task and placed my associates and myself in greater danger." I answered. No point in being too nice, I just knew this was going to get ugly.

"As a firm, we need to know what happened when eight of our employees die. Families need to have explanations. Our firm needs to know what went wrong. If we can't determine what went wrong, we'll have to cease to do business with you and your firm. We'll also have to investigate aggressively." He answered. His tone letting me know they were ready to get ugly to get their answers.

That was bad. I was kind of depending on Dark Glass for their counter-surveillance and I wanted to be able to commission similar services in the future. Further, I had access to Dark Glass through a client. If I screwed up the relationship between that client and Dark Glass, that could be a problem. Lastly, while he didn't say it directly, there was a clear implication they could get a lot more nasty if they didn't get their answers.

"When someone commissions your firm's services, they expect a certain level of competence and discretion, of which I have received neither. I'd imagine at this point I'd be due an apology and a refund." I answered.

That threatened them on the same level. If it got around that Dark Glass wasn't competent and discreet that would be a problem for them. Further I was saying I wasn't intimidated because I was a tough cookie. In fact, though, I was crazy intimidated!

"I'm afraid we need to have a better understanding of what happened at Antelope." He said, his voice saying, "we're ready to go the wall to get what we need." Antelope was one of several small towns roughly equidistant from Travis' cabin. Mostly because the cabin was in the middle of nowhere.

"Look, I'm not saying I know anything that's not already in official police reports. However, if I did, I wouldn't want to say anything over the phone that might incriminate me. You have to understand I'm in a delicate situation here." I said hoping that we might get to a compromise.

"I can see that and as long as you are not directly responsible for any of their conditions, we would not wish to change our business relationship or compromise your situation." He answered in a more conciliatory tone. No doubt reflecting that he thought he was going to get what he wanted.

"I might be willing to put together a hypothetical story. Something that could not have possibly happened that might satisfy your concerns, at least as they apply to me." I offered.

"That might work…" Vinton began.

"But I warn you, it might involve fantastical elements not normally found on police reports." I interjected.

"We've reviewed the physical evidence at this point. We know that some very 'fantastical' elements played a role. We have previous experience with such elements. We would want to hear your hypothetical story." He answered.

"How about this. I go get one of your boys by my house. I take him somewhere nice. No tech. I give him a phone. He calls you. I'll tell him the magic story. No promises, but I might be willing to answer a question or two if I felt some good will." I offered.

"I accept." He answered.

"Call you back in a bit." I said.

I immediately called Travis and Jake.

Jake drove out of my place in the truck with me in the back seat. I knew the Dark Glass guys and picked one up quick. I then drove a short distance to the Starbucks. When we got out, I left the spare phone in my truck. I pressed a button on my phone that put all my gear in protected mode and let a magic pulse fly. The Dark Glass agent, I was pleased to note, had several spots where his body popped and smoked. We then went inside.

I found a nice booth and Jake, with his bat prominently held, sat down at another table nearby looking menacing.

I handed the Dark Glass agent the phone and sat back in the booth to wait as the Dark Glass man, six two of mid-thirties security professionalism started dialing. While he dialed, I gave him the magic once over, he was vanilla human.

"Before we start, I just wanted to thank you and the other gentlemen for protecting my home. I'm very grateful." I said while he dialed.

He stopped dialing for a second and said, "Oh, you're welcome." In a very human and slightly surprised tone.

He finished dialing. A few seconds later Vinton's voice came from the phone and said, "Please tell me this hypothetical story."

I said, to check the speakerphone, "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," he replied.

"For some time, I have been having a disagreement with an evil wizard. I'd be willing to let bygones be bygones if he would just move on, but he won't. I had not been expecting a fight when we went to my friend's cabin in Wyoming, but I thought it reasonable to take some basic precautions, hence your men. The last I heard from them was the night before I proceeded to the cabin where they told me all was well. Unfortunately, by the time I reached the cabin, the men were dead and re-animated as zombies. I would like to point that out clearly, they were all dead when I got there. Clearly my adversary had his way with them." I said.

"They weren't animated when the authorities arrived. They looked like they had been dead for some time but had walked to a certain point where their heads had been blasted." The Dark Glass agent conveyed.

"Well I'm actually a magical holy man and said a prayer to banish evil creatures and that seemed to work." I said.

"At some point, all the animated creatures, whether they were blasted or not seem to have stopped." He conveyed.

"I'm very devout." I answered.

"I feel like there are important details you aren't giving." He said.

"I feel like I'm telling you everything I know and everything that's relevant. After I returned all the creatures to their just rest, I would have felt the need to leave quickly, but not without leaving an associate to speak with the authorities." I answered.

"What about the evil wizard, was he there?" He asked.

"I'm not sure. I never saw him. It's possible he was close by and left when his minions stopped, or he may have been doing everything from a distance. If you're looking for the responsible party, you should talk to him." I answered.

I then got a signal on my cell phone as the Dark Glass guy started to speak again.

I interrupted "I have really conveyed to you everything I know. Whatever else you hope to learn, or gain, is really a waste of time. Regardless, you should call off your men. I'm pretty sure I have the drop on them, and this could get real messy in the middle of town fast."

The signal was from Travis who was set up on a nearby rooftop and had let me know that Dark Glass agents were moving into position to storm the Starbucks.

The man at the table tried to draw a pepper spray can. I was at full on now. It was amazing how slow he seemed. Before I had to do anything, Jake reached over with the handle of his bat and pulled the guy's chair over dumping him on the floor. I picked up the pepper spray can, kicked off his shades and sprayed his face. The guy fell apart, screaming and crying. Must be some good stuff.

I picked up the phone and said, "This is going to get very expensive for you very fast. You already know everything."

Over the phone Vinton replied, "I feel like there is more you're not telling us. We need to know that too. However, just don't hurt my man in there anymore, and we'll back off."

"I'll let him be. However, I have to let you know that as of now, you're firm is being let go. I've also had a conversation with my client," I'd been talking to the client in question in the back seat of my truck. "They agree that you're services are no longer necessary. They're exercising their right under article 9 of your contract to release your firm's services without further remuneration." I said.

"Hey, that is not appropriate…" he began.

"Yes, it is, and you can fight, but I can assure you, you'll lose." I said. Then added, "You can cut your losses here and accept that I have told you everything and the truth or you can push it. If you push it with my client, that will be bad. You might win someday, but it will bankrupt your firm. I suggest you make a smart decision and back the hell off. I don't want to see a Dark Glass person ever again. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I understand. I need to get my guy." He replied.

"We'll put him in the bathroom. You can come get him later." I said.

Jake and I carried the guy to the bathroom and helped him wash his face which seemed to take the suffering down from existential to just bad weeping. Then we left.

We collected Travis who had been on a nearby roof with the TAC-338.

What a mess.

*** And now a word from our sponsor! ***

Please don't miss that this is the first exciting book in a series. This book is followed by Warlock of Omaha Squared and Warlock of Omaha Cubed, both also on this site!

If you enjoy Star Wars and my writing, you may also enjoy a series of three Star Wars novels I have written, all called Legend of the Harp!

This writer, like the story teller in the market of old, now has a hat out hoping for a small gratuity. There is no obligation and I'm grateful you took a moment to read. However, if my writing has found favor in your eyes, please take a moment to go to:

Pay

Pal

.me

/hemaccabe

and throw in a little something, a dime, a quarter, a dollar, etc.

While I love to write, I do have a spouse and a child and a job and many other claims on my time that don't understand why I would spend so many hours banging on a keyboard. A small tangible return would help smooth the way to allow me to provide many more stories.

Please help. Thank-you.


	16. Chapter 16

Warlock of Omaha Chapter 16 You Can Go Your Own Way

A few days later, the axe was done. I'd been working on it harder since the incident with Dark Glass. It was a substantial upgrade. I walked over to my on-site range. I set up a cinder block a hundred yards down range. Then I turned and focused my will. A bolt of air shot down range and cracked the block. I'd come some way.

That morning when I went down to the infirmary's basement, Cassie woke up. I had just relieved Jake, who had headed out to pursue his activities for the day. The basement still had my cell and the dentist's chair. However, you can't keep someone on their back in a dentist's chair for weeks on end. Luckily the medical profession has a lot of experience dealing with crazy people that needed to be held down. We had wedged in a reinforced hospital bed. It was more comfortable, but strong enough to hold Jake. We had given Cassie a full bath and she was in a hospital gown. Her fingerprints and DNA didn't register on any database.

I was typing on my notebook when I became aware her eyes were open. I put away the notebook and looked at her.

"Welcome back." I said.

"Where am I?" She asked. Her voice creaky.

"You're a guest in my home." I answered.

"Are you another minion of Shin Midori Ha?" She asked.

"Is that you're former employer's name?" I asked.

"You are the one he is trying to collect." She said looking at me with a dawning recognition in her eyes. "I didn't recognize you without the hat."

"So, this 'Shin Midori Ha,' is the name of the one hunting me?" I asked.

"Yes." She answered.

"So nice to have a name." I said.

"I'm sure it's not his true name. But it's what he's called." She said.

"So, do you wish to go back and serve him further?" I asked. I wasn't sure what she wanted. Maybe she was a slave against her will, maybe a loyal agent.

The look on her face twisted. The she started screaming and crying incoherently for a few seconds and then passed out.

That went well.

I hadn't looked her over with my sight yet, so I did. It was a surprise. Every kind of magical critter I had run into has their own energy pattern. Mostly humans have a look like wizards with a central basin of power. The more natural talent, the bigger the basin. Some look different. Travis has these weird coronas around his head among other things. Jake had no center, but a network running through his body. It's hard to look at one's self, but I would say I had a network similar to Jake, but still with a wizard's gut. Cassie looked more like me. I also noticed how her network was different than Jake's, but more similar to mine.

I didn't think she would wake again that day. I was right.

Her response was pretty weird, but I'd had plenty of time to read up on people who had been through traumatic experiences and injuries and in that context, her behavior was actually fairly normal.

The next morning, I had a thermos of broth ready. She awoke again.

I didn't say anything, I just put the broth in a bowl and fed her. When she was done, she fell asleep again.

We did broth for a few days.

Then on the sixth day she asked, "Where am I?"

"You're a guest in my home." I answered.

"I am loyal Ha." She said and passed out.

Not very promising.

She awoke that afternoon and had more broth.

"Why don't you make me drink blood?" She asked.

"I don't make anyone drink blood." I answered.

"What game are you playing Ha?" She asked, somewhat tense.

"I'm not Ha." I answered.

"Some sort of punishment then? Build me up for greater torture as punishment for failing to take the Warlock?" She asked then continued, "I know my life is forfeit for not bringing back your prizes. I suppose you wish to strengthen me for the torture first."

She said leaning back into the bed with resignation.

"Well. That's how it is." I thought.

"How about you just feel better and we'll worry about torture another time?" I asked.

"Makes sense." She said.

"Have you ever woken in a bed like this before?" I asked.

"No, you know it's normally a tile floor." She answered.

"Where is my den?" I asked.

"The east side of Denver." She answered.

"Where exactly?" I asked, perhaps a bit too eager.

"You know I don't know. You clouded that in my mind in case I was captured." She answered.

"Do you know what I am?" I asked.

"Some sort of frog demon." She answered.

Great a demon.

"What do I look like normally? I asked.

"Like a giant man frog with a big mouth full of sharp teeth and a crown on your head." She answered.

Sounded like a real charmer.

"Do I have magic?" I asked.

"Yes, powerful magic." She answered.

"What have you seen me do?" I asked.

"You put me naked into the liquid clay that burns worse than fire. It makes me strong. Makes me obey you. I hate you for that." She said.

She then passed out again.

She got more lucid and woke more each day. I forbade Jake to see her. He didn't like it, but he understood. I questioned her more. She didn't know more about his powers than I'd seen in action.

After about a week, she was much improved. She came back together much faster than Travis. She was getting confused.

"Why are you waiting?" She asked a little angry, like she was hiding the fear. "You never wait this long to put me back in clay or torture me?"

"I might have some bad news for you." I said.

"What?" She asked.

"I'm really not Ha. I'm the Warlock." I said, then asked, "If you want. I'll let you go back to him. Do you want to?"

Her face twisted.

"How many times have you asked me that pretending to be someone else to test my loyalty? How can I ever believe you?" She asked, obviously in torment.

What a charmer this guy must be. I could feel the conflict in her head. She wanted desperately to believe she was away from Ha, but he had played this game before, testing her torture enforced loyalty.

I decided I had to do something really stupid.

I unlocked her cuffs and helped her get up from the bed. It's not like she could move very well, but she made it up the stairs leaning on me. I then went to open the doors and said, "Cover your eyes."

She covered them and we walked into a bright sunny early spring day. It was early evening. The light was just beginning to change. Perhaps it was a bit cold, so I took off the hoodie I was wearing and put it on her.

"Welcome to freedom." I said. "You can stay here, or I'll call you a cab."

She did something weird then. She knelt in the grass, like a wild creature. My heart stopped.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I haven't been in the open air or touched the earth without burning clay on me in a very long time." She answered.

"You failed to take me at the cabin. I captured you." I explained then continued, "If you choose to be loyal to this Ha, I won't stop you. However, I'd prefer you stay?" I asked.

"I will stay." She said. "This is as close to free as I have tasted in a long time. It won't make any difference. He's much too powerful for you. For all of us. He'll come and we'll all die or be enslaved. For a little while, I'll get to remember what it was like to be free."

"The hoodie looks good on you." I said. That made her smile.

She pulled the hoodie around herself, doing so while giving her body a good stretch. I'd seen all of her naked for quite some time. I'd done more than my fair share of washing and changing bed pans. Somehow, in that context her body hadn't been sexy, just clinical. Watching her stretch was a whole 'nother game. She still had some bruising and she was painfully thin, but I could see the Cassie I had met in the warehouse. Like that Cassie, this one was no Victoria's Secret model. She wasn't ugly. She looked like she was mid-thirties, maybe stood a slightly tall five foot eight? She seemed basically fit, but not crazy extraordinary. Despite that, I was aware of every square inch of exposed skin.

"Is Cassie your real name?" I asked.

"No." She said. Her voice now had a just a hint of lilt in that one brief word, a lilt I hadn't heard since I'd last spoken with my mother.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Tamar." She answered.

I should not have picked her up then, taken her to the garret and slept with her. That was very stupid. It was also the most intense experience of my life.

How did being with Tamar compare to being with my other girls? It was like the real thing as compared to watching a movie. It was incredibly powerful. At the same time, I knew, as much as I would want to do this again, I'd still also want to go see the movies.

So, the big question was, am I being played? Was she just putting down a seeming on me? Clearly, she has abilities to convince. The simple answer is I don't know. My defenses were unchallenged, the shunt I had into her mind told me she wasn't trying anything, my sight said all was well. But, it's always a game, how good can you see versus how good can they hide? Mr. Guna's driver had just given me a lesson on that very issue. Was she going to get me hopelessly addicted to her and lead me back to this Ha with a leash around my junk? I was gambling. I knew that.

*** And now a word from our sponsor! ***

Please don't miss that this is the first exciting book in a series. This book is followed by Warlock of Omaha Squared and Warlock of Omaha Cubed, both also on this site!

If you enjoy Star Wars and my writing, you may also enjoy a series of three Star Wars novels I have written, all called Legend of the Harp!

This writer, like the story teller in the market of old, now has a hat out hoping for a small gratuity. There is no obligation and I'm grateful you took a moment to read. However, if my writing has found favor in your eyes, please take a moment to go to:

Pay

Pal

.me

/hemaccabe

and throw in a little something, a dime, a quarter, a dollar, etc.

While I love to write, I do have a spouse and a child and a job and many other claims on my time that don't understand why I would spend so many hours banging on a keyboard. A small tangible return would help smooth the way to allow me to provide many more stories.

Please help. Thank-you.


	17. Chapter 17

**Warlock of Omaha Cubed**

 **Chapter 17: White Rabbit**

I was again on the narrow mountain pass near Aelia Capitolina. Ben Bava was dead. We put his body on a shield. Nine legionnaires had died when they fell off the ledge. Twenty-three legionnaires had various injuries, which varied from being blinded, deafened, lamed or had lost the use of one or both arms.

All for one Teacher and his students, now ordained, long gone. Of course, his pockets were empty.

I noticed a number of legionnaires suddenly taken aback when they looked at me. None lost discipline, but clearly something was amiss about my appearance. I checked my gear, all seemed as it should be. I checked for bleeding, found none.

We made our motley way back down to Aelia Capitolina. I had Bava's body hung from the wall near the gate which lead to Caesarea. The people would get to see Bava defiled by birds and his corpse rot without dignity. An excellent lesson on the fruitlessness of rebellion.

Of course, I suspected every man, woman and child on the street knew Bava was ordaining students. The absence of the students was proof they had gotten away. This undermined the lesson.

I continued to mark that I was receiving many strange looks. I checked in a bronze mirror and I noticed my face was unusually pale. I checked my reflection again and examined my body. I found I was white all over! Not simply pale, but unnaturally white! Like the whitest plaster or an unpainted marble statue! Everything, my skin, my hair, my nails, even my eyes! My appearance was now quite shocking.

No doubt all part of Bava's curse. Well, it was just color. How much could that matter.

I resumed my duties the next day.

When I arrived from my quarters to the mess to have my breakfast, the slave boy came and delivered a summons, "The Commander would see you immediately after breakfast."

I imagined he wanted a direct report of the previous day's debacle. Not the best position to be in, but I was hardly the first Speculatore who had been in such a scrap with a local Teacher.

I finished my breakfast of grains and meat. I then polished my armor quickly to make sure I made a good appearance. I then went and sought out the Commander and found him in his office.

As I walked through the door to his office, I took a moment to look on the Commander, seated in his chair at his table. He looked as I might twenty years hence if I was still here in Palestine trying to put down the relentless rebellion of these ungrateful Judeans. His face was lined. Only the strength of the steel in his slowly disintegrating chest armor held in his gut. His hair had grey in it.

"What happened up there yesterday?" The Commander began in his normal gruff demeanor.

"Their Teacher, ben Bava, was able to call on that power again. It almost destroyed the whole company. However, I was able to overcome him. We experienced some casualties, but we got our man and he hangs on the wall by the gate." I said with some confidence.

It wasn't the best report, but I had done the standard practice and glossed over the bad points like the escaping Teachers and casualties and focused on the positive.

Then the Commander, who spent most of his life asleep, drunk or in lethargy complaining of the heat did the most shocking thing, he exploded up to his feet and began to yell at me!

"And what of the escaped Teachers? What of the casualties? All lost to some unknown magic? Did you forget to mention those? One man with no magic stopped an entire company? I find that hard to believe. I think you were drunk or worse. Perhaps a bit of cowardice? Eh?"

I was very taken aback by the sudden verbal attack. I couldn't think what to say. It was bad enough to be accused of inebriation, but cowardice? That was unheard of! Normally such an accusation would have to be answered with violence. I was speechless.

Before I could think of something to say the Commander issued an order, "You are to restrict yourself to barracks until I can think of appropriate punishment."

With nothing to say, I left the Commander's barracks and took myself to my barracks.

I spent, perhaps, an hour feeling sorry for myself. Then I realized to stay was death. This was not a matter that could be resolved with some barracks punishment. I had been accused of cowardice. It would have to answered in blood, most likely my own.

I gathered up my things and executed the plan I had long prepared for the day when I might have to flee. My barracks room had a small window, too small and too high to leave from. Except I could remove the wood frame from the stone opening, expanding it just wide enough for my thin frame to shimmy through. I also had a short length of rope. Just enough to let myself down most of the way and only, perhaps, a man's height to the ground.

I left my own armor in the room, even the extra silver and gold badges. I dropped my bag out the window and followed.

I could have taken my armor but leaving it would make them think I was coming back. That was why the gold and silver had to be left too. It would create the appearance I was returning. Perhaps I was just out using a toilet, or seeing a whore? Perhaps, getting some drink? The doubt would slow pursuit.

I made my way to a spot where I knew the petty cash was kept. It was a small stone office just off the Cardo. There was a centurion and a legionnaire guard. I had worked hard over the years to build a friendly rapport with the man for this moment when I would betray him, but it seemed all for naught?

"What do you want?" The Centurion snarled at me with complete suspicion.

Well, there was more than one way to skin a cat.

I reached out to the men and filled them with fear and dread. The legionnaire never had a chance before my good iron knife went through his armor's belly and up into his chest.

The Centurion was on his feet and had his Gladius in his hand, much good it would do him. A fresh lance of dread made him double over, bringing his neck right to my hand. I took the hair from the top of his head in my left hand and slaughtered him like a pig.

I checked the men and took their meagre purses. Then the object of my efforts, the lockbox. I used the key from the Centurion's belt and opened it. I knew some days there was more and some less. This seemed less, but it would have to do.

Of course, this could not be one of the many moments they would go unbothered for hours. Their door began to open, and I hurled myself against the wall beside the door. The poor minor officer walked in to gossip with the Centurion and didn't even notice me. Just as he was about to scream, my knife found his liver through the small of his back. One more purse joined my collection and I was on my way.

My next stop was a spot where I had cavalry armor hidden. I had collected the armor from a fallen cavalry legionnaire officer after an earlier episode like the one I had with Bava. I recognized the armor for what it was. A pass to go where I will.

I dressed in the armor and took the scroll case I had acquired with it. With the scroll case, I was now an accredited messenger, and the case was my credential.

I went to the Aeolia Capitolina military stables, the case was permission to requisition a horse. I picked one of the beasts from the stable man making sure I took the Commander's favorite. I showed the outside of the message to the stable hand which said I was off for Alexandria.

Then I rode out the Caesarea Gate, saluted ben Bava's corpse and rode north.

*** And now a word from our sponsor! ***

Please imagine a chorus line of attractive, scantily clad, very fit high steppers in the gender of your choice!

This writer, like the story teller in the market of old, now has a hat out hoping for a small gratuity. There is no obligation and I'm grateful you took a moment to read. However, if my writing has found favor in your eyes, please take a moment to go to:

Pay

Pal

.me

/hemaccabe

and throw in a little something, a dime, a quarter, a dollar, etc.

While I love to write, I do have a spouse and a child and a job and many other claims on my time that don't understand why I would spend so many hours banging on a keyboard. A small tangible return would help smooth the way to allow me to provide many more stories.

Please help. Thank-you.


	18. Chapter 18

**Warlock of Omaha Cubed**

 **Chapter 18: When You're Going**

I woke up. I was lying on the gurney in my own clinic. Kelly was there keeping an eye on me. When she saw I had regained consciousness, she hit a signal. Novi came through the door as she was doing it.

It had taken some explaining to Novi that she shouldn't just appear places, she should come through a door.

"I am glad to see you are awake." Novi said.

I hurt all over. I felt sick. My left hip was particularly unhappy.

"What happened?" I asked.

Novi smiled as she replied, "You were poisoned by the arrow that pierced you."

Great.

"Am I going to live?" I asked.

"Yes." Novi replied.

Considering how I felt, I wasn't sure if that was good news.

"Please tell me what happened after I passed out?" I asked.

Novi nodded slowly, sometimes she didn't get the beats of human conversation, "We rushed you here. We undressed you. We saw the wound on your left thigh. Travis explained you had been hit by an arrow and showed us the arrow. I made an antidote salve which was applied to your wound. Kelly gave you two stitches. Tamar fed you a general curative."

Just as Novi finished speaking, Tamar came through the door.

"Tamar, you fed me a general curative?" I asked her.

"Chicken soup." She replied.

"Ahh." I answered.

"What shot those arrows?" I asked.

Novi answered, "Creatures of the Faerie Winter Court, likely goblins."

"Of course." I thought sardonically to myself.

"What were those knights?" I asked.

Novi replied again, "Riders of the Flame. Creatures of the Faerie Summer Court."

"Diograssach." Tamar said.

"Dio gra what?" I asked.

"The leader of the Riders of the Flame. She and I have a bit of history." Tamar replied.

Then Tamar added, "When the one Court acts here on Earth, frequently that will draw agents of the other court. Particularly during Spring, and now, during the Fall. It's unusual, but not unknown for an agent of the courts to act directly against a mortal here on Earth, but the goblins are thought of as being Wyldfae and, thus, less bound by the rules governing the Courts. Also, they could be acting on someone's behalf."

Well that was all useful to know.

"What about those ant things with White Man? They were the same things that tried to get me at that make-believe traffic stop." I asked.

"Those were Myrmidons." Novi explained.

"Myrmidons, you mean like from the Illiad?" I asked.

"Yes, they have been around as cheap mercenaries and scum for a long time." Tamar replied.

"I thought they became people in the Illiad?" I asked still confused.

"A mistake of translation. As you should realize reading about Thetis, she was quite a sorceress. First rendering Achilles almost invulnerable and then summoning the Myrmidons to be his soldiers." Tamar explained.

"Is there any special trick to kill the Myrmidons? Do they have any special weakness?" I asked.

"Shoot them a lot. They're not too bright." Tamar explained.

"Ahh. Will I recover?" I decided to change tacks.

Novi answered, "You should make a full recovery."

"How soon?" I asked.

"With your constitution, it's hard to say." Novi replied.

"Why are you still being lazy in bed?" Tamar asked demonstrating her profound ability to show sympathy. 

"Umm, I'm not sure I can stand?" I replied.

"Ask you're wolf for help and get moving." Tamar replied.

That was actually a good idea.

I reached inside and asked my wolf for help. I felt the wolf move and began to feel substantially better.

I dragged myself off the gurney and stood. It wasn't pleasant, but I managed it and I wasn't going to fall down either.

Tamar had brought me some clean clothes. I got dressed and went out to the truck.

It was messed up.

On the left side were a number of holes, including in the tires and fuel tank from arrows.

The back and right side were pocked with bullet holes. I stopped counting at 39. Clearly, Travis and I had survived due to the time and effort I had placed into bullet proofing the truck. Still she was covered in dents and holes. Once again, the tires were holed and the fuel tank pierced. The rear and front left passenger windows had held but were badly shot up. Several bullets had entered the engine compartment, and she was leaking every type of fluid on the ground. She was pretty dead.

I called Jed.

"Yeah, I just got those two tires patched…" he began.

"The truck's dead. We need to start prep on a new truck." I cut him off.

"Oh, okay. I'll get right on that." Jedi replied.

I had the presence of mind to say, "Thank-you," and we hung up.

I went to my forge office and checked the news. It had been a big news day for Omaha.

There had been a large natural gas pipeline explosion in Lamp Park. Several thousand homes were without service. MUD had the pipeline shut off and was expediting repairs. All the service trucks had done an excellent job obscuring my tire tracks.

The defunct Italian restaurant next to the park had burned down.

There had also been a major shooting incident. The police spokesman said it had been a gangland assassination attempt. Several witnesses remembered seeing a Cadillac Escalade leaving the scene. How, exactly, my Dodge Ram could have been seen as a Cadillac Escalade was a mystery I doubted I would ever solve. More interesting is that they had remembered the Myrmidons as men in suits, which explained a lot about descriptions of Achilles' soldiers.

It was coming morning, I was hungry, but considering what I was about to try and do, I decided not to eat.

I had placed the arrows, which I now saw were made of black ice, still in the tool case, in a deep freeze. You can use your fancy magic weapons on me, but then I'm going do my best to figure out how you did it.

I looked at the truck again as I put my toys away. I wasn't going to bother to take the stun gun again. I couldn't imagine there would be much on the other side that I would want to stun. I suspected the girl would be happy to see us by the time we got there, and we wouldn't have to worry about her running away again too quick.

I tried for a moment to imagine what we were walking into. I was never the kind of kid who'd been into horror movies. I figured, if you have the horses to do it, do it. If you don't, don't. There were things that scared me, like leaving my family, but horrified?

I had told Travis to be ready at dawn. He had nodded with grim determination.

"Will you be able to track her now?" I had asked.

He had nodded with resignation.

I pulled my gear together. It had taken a beating on my recent excursion to the Hawthorne. Still, it had some more to give. This time I was loading for bear. Full armor, all mags, helmet, all the toys. I had selected Big Baby, the shotgun, because I figured I was more likely to be needing to hit area effects. A group of bats might all go with a single shot gun blast. I wouldn't be carrying the rifle and shotgun, while theoretically possible, it was way too bulky. Not just the rifles, but the magazines and the carrying rigs. I suppose if I needed to hump stuff across a distance I could have put something together, like a cart, but for going into combat at the live action castle of horrors? Rather be able to move quick.

I wasn't sure what we would face. Normal horror stuff meant nothing to me, but I'm sure they were experts in being awful. We'd see how their awful and my shotgun rounds got along.

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	19. Chapter 19

*** And now a word from our sponsor!***

Please imagine a chorus line of attractive, scantily clad, very fit high steppers in the gender of you choice!

This writer, like the story teller in the market of old, now has a hat out hoping for a small gratuity. There is no obligation and I'm grateful you took a moment to read. However, if my writing has found favor in your eyes, please take a moment to go to:

pay

pal

.me

/hemaccabe

and throw in a little something, a dime, a quarter, a dollar, etc.

While I love to write, I do have a spouse and a child and a job and many other claims on my time that don't understand why I would spend so many hours banging on a keyboard. A small tangible return would help smooth the way to allow me to provide many more stories.

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End file.
